The lips of Andree closed, as if they would have refused an answer. She said:

  “I make no charge against the queen, and would be unjust were I to refuse to do her full justice.”

  “I say this, madame,” said Charny, “because I see that for some time the friendship she bore you has been somewhat diminished.”

  “Possibly, sir; and on that account, as I had the honour to say, I wished to leave the court.”

  “But, madame, you will be very lonely and isolated.”

  “Have I not always been, as a child, a girl, and as — ”

  She paused, seeing that she was going too far.

  “Go on, madame,” said Charny.

  “You have seen my idea, sir; I was about to say as a wife.”

  “Am I so happy as to have you reproach me on that account?”

  “Reproach, sir!” said Andree, quickly. “What right, great God, have I to reproach you? Think you, I forget the circumstances of our marriage? No; those who at the foot of the altar do not swear eternal love, but, as we did, eternal indifference and separation, have no right to reproach each other for violation of the marriage vow.”

  Andree’s words wrung a sigh from the heart of Charny.

  “I see, madame,” said he, “that your determination is fixed, but, at least, let me ask you, how you are to live here?”

  Andree smiled sadly.

  “My father’s household,” said she, ‘‘was so poor, that, compared with it, this pavilion, naked as it seems, is more luxurious than anything I have been used to.”

  “But the charming retreat of Trianon, Versailles.”

  “Ah! I knew I would have to relinquish them.”

  “You will at least have here all you need.”

  “I shall find all I am used to.”

  “Let me see,” said Charny, who wished to form an idea of the room she was to occupy, and who was examining everything.

  “What do you wish to see, sir?” asked Andree, rising slowly, and looking anxiously in the direction of the chamber.

  “But if you are not very humble in your wishes, madame, this pavilion is not a home. I have passed through one antechamber, and I am now in the saloon. This door” (he opened one on the side) “leads into a chamber, and that, I see, into a dining-room.”

  Andree rushed between the count and the door, and fancied that she saw Sebastian.

  “Monsieur,” said she, “I beg you not to go further.”

  And she closed the passage.

  “Ah! I understand: this is the door of your bed-chamber.”

  “Yes, sir,” muttered Andree, half stifled.

  Charny looked at the countess, and saw that she was trembling and pale. Terror was never more evident than in the expression of her face.

  “Ah! madame, I was aware that you did not love me, but was not aware that you hated me .’“

  Unable to repress his feelings in Andree’s presence any longer, he staggered for a moment like a drunken man, and rushed out of the room with a cry of agony which reached the depth of Andree’s heart.

  The young woman looked after him until he had disappeared. With outstretched ears she listened as long as she could to hear his carriage wheels, which gradually became more indistinct, and then, arousing all her power, though she felt that her heart would almost break, and that she had not too much maternal love to combat this other love, she rushed into the room crying, “Sebastian! Sebastian!”

  No voice replied to her, and her cry of agony had no echo.

  By the light of the lamp she looked around, and saw that the room was empty.

  She could, however, scarcely believe her eyes.

  She called Sebastian, again and again.

  The silence was unbroken.

  Then only did she see that the window was open, and that the current of air agitated the flame of the lamp.

  The same window had been found open when, fifteen years before, her son had first disappeared.

  “True,” said she, “did he not say I was not his mother?”

  Then she saw that at the moment she had regained them, she had lost both a husband and a child, and she threw herself on her bed with arms outstretched, and her fingers convulsively grasped. Her strength and resignation were exhausted.

  She could but cry, weep, and appreciate her loss.

  Nearly an hour passed in this state of profound annihilation, in a total oblivion of the whole world, and that wish for annihilation which the unhappy entertain — the hope that, returning to nothing, the world will with it hear them away.

  All at once it seemed to Andree that something more terrible than grief coursed through her veins. A sensation she had experienced but twice or thrice before, and which had always preceded great crises of her life, took possession of her. By a slow motion, independent of will, she slowly lifted herself up. Her voice died in her throat; all her body, as if involuntarily attracted, became convulsed, and she fancied she could see that she was not alone. Her sight became fixed and clear; a man who seemed to have passed the window still stood before her; she wished to call, to reach out her hand to the bell-rope; she felt the same inexpressible stupor she before had experienced in the presence of Balsamo. The man who thus fascinated her was Gilbert.

  Here came the father she hated, to replace the son she loved.

  CHAPTER V.

  What Became of Sebastian.

  THE FIRST SENTIMENT of Andree, when she saw Gilbert, was not only that of profound terror, but of invincible repugnance.

  Gilbert, on the contrary, entertained for Andree, in spite of her contempt, scorn, and persecutions, not the ardent love which led him when young to crime, but the deep passionate devotion which would have made a man do her a service, even at the peril of his life.

  The reason is, that he saw that all Andree’s troubles were due to him, and that he owed her a sum of happiness equal to that of which he had deprived her.

  Andree spoke first: she said, “What do you wish, sir? How came you here, and why? What wish you?”

  “I came to demand a treasure which is valueless to you, but inestimable to me. What do I wish? To know how that child was borne away by you, and know what has become of him.”

  “What has become of him?” said Andree. “How do I know? He fled from me. You have taught him thoroughly to hate his mother.”

  “His mother!” said Gilbert. “Are you really such?”

  “Ah!” said she, “he sees my distress, he hears my cries, and asks if I am really a mother!”

  “You do not know where he is?”

  “I tell you he fled from me. When I came to this room, in which I had left him, he was gone. The window was up, and he gone.”

  “My God! what will become of him? How can he find his way through Paris? It is after twelve, too.”

  “Oh!” said Andree, “think you that he is in danger?”

  “We will know, and from you,” said he.

  He stretched forth his hand.

  “Monsieur!” said she, drawing back to avoid the magnetic influence.

  “Madame, do not fear. I talk to a mother of her son, of the means to find him. To me you are sacred. Sleep, and read with your heart.”

  “I do sleep.” — ”Do you, with me, employ all the power of my will, or do you sleep voluntarily?”

  “Will you again say that I am not Sebastian’s mother?”

  “As the case may be. Do you love him?”

  “Can he ask if I love the child I bore? Yes, I love him deeply.”

  “Then you are his mother, madame, for you love him as I do.”

  “Yes!” said Andree, sighing.

  “You will reply voluntarily?” — ”Will you permit me to see him?”

  “Have I not said that you were his mother, as I am his father? You love him as I do, and shall see him.”

  “Thanks,” said Andree, with an expression of unutterable joy, and she clasped her hands. “Now ask — I see.”

  “What?”

  “Follow him since he left, that I may not lose track of him.”

  “Well, where did you see him?” — ” In the green room.”

  “Where did he follow you?” — ” Down the corridor.”

  “Where did he join you?” — ” At the carriage.”

  “Whither did you take him?” — ”To the next room.”

  “Where did he sit?” — ” By me.”

  “How long?” — ” Half an hour.”

  “Why did he leave you?”

  “Because the noise of a carriage was heard.”

  “Who was in the carriage?”

  Andree hesitated.

  “Who was in the carriage?” said Gilbert, in a firmer tone, and a positive expression of will.

  “The Count de Charny.”

  “Where did you hide the child?” — ” In that room.”

  “What did he say as he left you?”

  “That I was not his mother.”

  “Why?” Andree was silent.

  “Why? Speak, for I will have it so.”

  “Because I said — ”

  “What?” — ” Because I said you were a vile rascal.”

  “Look at the heart of that poor child, madame, and see the wrong you have done.”

  “My God! my God! Forgive me, my child!”

  “Did M. de Charny suspect the child was yours?” — ” No.”

  “Are you sure?” — ” Yes.”

  “Why did he not remain?”

  “M. de Charny does not live with me.”

  Andree was silent for a moment. Her eyes became fixed, and she attempted to see into darkness.

  “My God!” said she, “Charny, dear Charny!”

  Gilbert looked at her with surprise.

  “Alas!” said she, “it was for the purpose of returning to me that he refused this mission. He loves me.”

  Gilbert began to read confusedly the terrible drama he first penetrated.

  “And do you love him?”

  She sighed.

  “Why do you ask me that question?” said Andree.

  “Read my heart.”

  “Yes, your intention is good. You would make me forget the wrong you have done me, by conferring happiness on me. I would not, however, owe happiness to you. I hate, and will continue to do so for ever.”

  “Poor human nature,” murmured Gilbert; “is so much happiness set aside for you that you can refuse this? You love him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I have known him. Since the day he came from Versailles in the carriage with the queen and myself.”

  “Then you know what love is?” said Gilbert, sadly.

  “I do,” said the young woman, “know that love is given us too as a measure of woe.”

  “True; you are now a woman. A rough diamond you have been, set by the hands of the terrible lapidary, grief. Let us return to Sebastian.”

  “Ah! yes, let us do so. Do not let me think of M. de Charny. The idea of him troubles my faculties, and, instead of my child, I will, perhaps, follow the count.”

  “True; wife forget the husband, mother remember the child alone.”

  A half gentle expression at once took possession of her face and whole frame, entirely displacing the one she usually bore.

  “Where was he while you talked with your husband?”

  “Here, at the door.”

  “Did he hear the conversation?” — ” A part of it.”

  “When did he resolve to leave the room?”

  “At the moment when the count —

  She paused.

  “When M. de Charny kissed my hand, and I cried.”

  “You see him, then?”

  “Yes, with pleated brow, his lips fixed, and clenched hands.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Sees if there be no door opening into the garden. Seeing there is none, goes to the window, opens it, looks out, glances at the saloon, springs out and disappears.”

  “Follow him.’’ — ” I cannot.”

  Gilbert passed his hand in front of Andree’s eyes.

  “You know that for you there is no darkness. Look!”

  “Ah! ah! Runs down the alley by the wall, he opens the gate unseen, and gains the Rue Platriere. He stops, and speaks to a woman.”

  “Listen; do you hear him?” — ” I do.”

  “What does he ask?” — ” The way to Rue Saint Honore.”

  “Yes; I live there. Poor lad: he awaits me there.”

  “No!” said she, shaking her head with an expression of great sadness. “He did not go in. He did not wait.”

  “Whither, then, did he go?”

  “Let me follow him, or I shall lose him.”

  “Follow him, follow him,” said Gilbert, who saw that Andree foretold some misfortune for him.

  “I see him! I see him!”

  “Well?” — ”He is in Rue Grenelli; he is at Rue St. Honore; he crosses the Place Palais Royal at full speed: he asks the road again; he hurries on; he is in Rue Richelieu, in Rue des Frondeurs, Rue New St. Roch. Stop, stop, my poor child! Sebastian, do you not see that carriage driven down Rue Sourdiere? I see, I see the horses!”

  She muttered a terrible cry, rose up, and maternal agony was imprinted on her brow.

  “Ah!” said Gilbert, “if anything happens to him, remember it will recoil on you.”

  “Ah!” said Andree, without hearing or listening to anything said by Gilbert. “Thank the God of heaven, the horse has thrown him out of the way of the wheels! I see him senseless, but not dead. No, no, not dead! He has only fainted. Help, help! my child!”

  With a cry of agony, Andree fell back again on the bed.

  Great as was Gilbert’s wish to know more, he granted to the trembling woman the repose she needed so much.

  He feared, if he excited her too much, a fibre of her heart would break, or that she would burst a blood-vessel.

  As soon, however, as he thought he could question her safely he said, “Well?”

  “Wait! wait! There is a crowd around him. Ah, for mercy’s sake let me go! It is my son, Sebastian. My God, is there no surgeon?”

  “Oh, I will go!” said Gilbert.

  “Wait!” said Andree, seizing his arm; “the crowd opens; here is one. Quick, sir, quick! You see he is not dead; you must save him!”

  She uttered a cry of agony.

  “What is the matter?” asked Gilbert.

  “It is not a man, but a gnome, a dwarf, a vampire — hideous, hideous!”

  “Madame, madame, do not lose sight of Sebastian.”

  “Ah!” said she, with a fixed expression of the lip and eye, “do not be uneasy, I will not.”

  “What does the man do?”

  “He carries him away. He goes into Rue Sourdiere. He enters the lane of St. Hyacinthe. He approaches a low door which is half open. He ascends a stair-way, and places him on a table covered with papers, both printed and manuscript. He takes off Sebastian’s coat, rolls up the sleeve, and binds his arm with ligatures, which a woman, dirty and hideous as the man, is bringing him. He takes out a lancet, and is about to bleed him. Ah! I cannot bear to see my child’s blood.”

  “Well?” said Gilbert, “look, and count the steps.”

  “I have. Eleven.”

  “Look at the door, and tell me what you see strange about it?”

  “A little opened; closed by a cross-bar grating.”

  “Well! that is all I need.”

  “Hurry, and you will find him there.”

  “Do you wish to awake at once and to remember? or not until to-morrow, after having forgotten all?”

  “Arouse me now! Let me remember!”

  Gilbert passed his hands in front of Andree’s eyes, breathed on her brow, and said, “Awake!’’

  The eyes of the young woman immediately became bright, and her limbs lost their rigidity. She looked at Gilbert almost without fear, and continued when awake the advice given him in sleep.

  “Hurry! hurry!” said she, “and take him from that man, of whom I am afraid.”

  CHAPTER VI.

  The Man of the Place Louis XV.

  GILBERT’S ANXIETY required no stimulation. He remembered what Andree had told him of his son’s route, and hurried after it, and reached the lane of St. Hyacinthe.

  Here he began to inspect the locality, and in the third door, by the grated cross, recognised Andree’s description, which was too exact to admit a doubt. He knocked, but no one answered. He knocked again.

  He fancied that he heard a timid and suspicious step approach him, by the stair-way.

  He knocked again.

  “Who is there?” said a female voice.

  “Open the door; I am the father of the wounded child whom you received.”

  “Open, Albertine!” said another voice. “It is Dr. Gilbert!”

  “Father, father!” said a third voice, in which Gilbert recognised his son’s.

  He breathed freely.

  The door was opened, and he ascended the steps, uttering his thanks as he went.

  At the last step he found himself in a kind of cellar, lighted by a lamp, and covered with papers, as Andree had said.

  In the dark, and on a kind of pallet, Gilbert saw his son, who appealed to him with outstretched hands. Powerful as Gilbert’s self-control was, paternal love triumphed over philosophical decorum, and he clasped his child to his breast warmly, though he took care not to wound his bleeding arm or sore chest.

  After a long paternal kiss, in which all was communicated, though unuttered, Gilbert turned to his host.

  He stood erect, with his legs apart, one hand resting on the table, the other on his hip, looking by the light of the lamp at the scene which passed before him.

  “Look, Albertine,” said he, “and thank the chance which has enabled me to be of service to one of my confreres.”

  As the surgeon spoke, Gilbert looked around, and for the first time looked at the shapeless being before him.

  A yellow and green light seemed to flash from his eyes, and declared that, like one of those persons pursued by Latona, if not human, he was not a toad.

  Gilbert shuddered in spite of himself. He seemed in some dream to have already seen this man in a sea of carnage.

  He approached Sebastian, and clasped him more tenderly than before.