Taking the Bastile (25 page)

‘ To the College of Louis-le-Grand I’ cried Gilbert, and threw himself into one corner of the vehicle, where he fell into a profound reverie, which was respected by Billot and Pitou.

All Paris was trembling with emotion. The news had spread rapidly throughout the city; rumours of the assassinations on the Place de la Greve were mingled with the glorious recital of the taking of the Bastille. Gilbert had not once looked out of the coach window Gilbert had not uttered a single word.

It appeared to him that notwithstanding all he had done to prevent it, tome drops of the blood which had been shea would fall upon his head. The doctor alighted from the hackney coach at the college gate, and made a sigu to Billot to follow him. As to Pitou, he discreetly remained in the coach.

Sebastian was still in the infirmary; the principal, in person, on Doctor Gilbert’! being announced, conducted f>im thither.

SEBASTIAN GILBERT 163

Billot, who although not a very acute observer, well knew the character of both father and son, attentively examined the scene which was passing before his eyes. Weak, irritable, and nervous, as the boy had shown himself in the moment of despair, he evinced an equal degree of tranquillity and reserve in the moment 01 joy. On perceiving his father he turned pale, and words failed him. A slight trembling shook his legs, and then he ran and threw his arms round his father’s neck, uttering a cry of joy, which resembled a cry of grief, and then held him slightly clasped within his arms. The doctor responded as silently to this mute pressure; only after having embraced his son, he looked at him with an expression that was more sorrowful than joyous. A more skilful observer than Billot would have said that some misfortune or some crime existed in the relations between that youth and that man. The youth was less reserved in his conduct towards Billot He ran to the good fanner, and threw his arms round his neck, saying.-^

‘You are a worthy man, Monsieur Billot; you have kept your promise to me, and I thank you for it.’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Billot, ‘and it was not without some trouble, I can assure you, Monsieur Sebastian. Your father was very safely locked up, and it was necessary to do a tolerable deal of damage before we could get him out.’

‘Sebastian,’ inquired the doctor, with some anxiety, ‘you are in good health?’

‘Yes, father,’ replied the young man, ‘although you find me here in the infirmary.’

‘Have you everything you require here?’ continued the doctor.

‘Everything thanks to you.’

‘I ITMM! then, my dear boy, still recommend to you the same, the only line of conduct study assiduously. I know that to you the word study is not a vain and monotonous word; if I believed it to be to, I would no longer say it.’

‘ Father, it is not for me to reply to you on that head; it is the province of Monsieur Berardier, our excellent principal.’

The doctor turned towards Monsieur B6rardier, who made a sign that he had something to say to him.

‘I will speak to you again in a moment, Sebastian,’ aid the doctor. And he went over to the principaL

*64 TAKING THE BASTILLE

‘Sir,’ said Sebastian, with anxious feeling, to Billot, ‘can anything unfortunate have happened to Pitou ? The poor lad is not with you.’

‘He is at the door, in a hackney coach replied Billot.

‘Father,’ said Sebastian, ‘will you allow Monsieur Billot to fetch Pitou to me? I should be very glad to see him.’

Gilbert gave an affirmative nod; Billot left the room.

‘What is it you would say to me?’ inquired Gilbert of the Abbe Berardier.

‘ I wished to tell you, sir, that it is not study that you should recommend to the young lad, but, on the contrary, to amuse himself.’

‘And on what account, good abbe?’

‘Yes, he is an excellent young man, whom everybody here loves as a son or as a brother, but ‘

‘But what?’ cried Gilbert, with anxiety.

‘But if great care be not taken, Monsieur Gilbert, there is something that will kill him.’

‘And what is that?’ said Gilbert.

‘The study which you so strongly recommend to him, If you could but see him seated at his desk, his arms crossed, poring over his dictionary, with eyes fixed ‘

‘Studying or dreaming?’ asked Gilbert.

‘Studying, sir; endeavouring to find a good expression the antique style, the Greek or Latin form seeking for it for hours together; and see 1 even at this very moment 1 look at him 1*

And indeed the young man, although it was not five minutes since his father had been speaking to him, although Billot had scarcely shut the door after him, Sebastian had fallen into a reverie which seemed closely allied to ecstasy.

‘Is he often thus?’ anxiously inquired Gilbert.

‘Sir, I could almost say that this is his habitual state; only see how deeply he is meditating.’

‘You are right, sir; and when you observe him in this state, you should endeavour to divert his thoughts.’

‘Ana yet it would be m pity, for the results of these meditations are compositions which will one day do great honour to the College Louis-le-Grand. I predict that in three years from this time, that youth yonder will bear oil all the prizes at our examination.’

‘Take care I’ replied the doctor; ‘this species of absorp-tion of thought, in which you se* Sebastian now plunged.

SEBASTIAN GILBERT 165

is rather a proof of weakness than of strength, a symptom rather of malady than of health. You are right, Monsieur Principal; it will not do to recommend assiduous application to that child; or, at least, we must know how to distinguish study from such a state of reverie.’

‘Sir, I can assure you that he is studying.’

‘What, as we see him now?’

‘Yes; and the proof is that hi* task is always finished before that of the other scholars. Do you see how his lips move? He is repeating his lessons.’

‘Well, then, whenever he is repeating his lessons in this manner, Monsieur Berardier, divert His attention from them. He will know his lessons the worse for it, and his health will be better for it. Only, when you wish to draw him out of such reveries, you must do it with much precaution. Speak to him very softly in the first instance, and then louder.’

‘And why so?’

‘To bring him gradually back to this world, which his mind has left.’

The abbe looked at the doctor with astonishment. It would not have required much to make him believe that he was mad.

‘Observe,’ continued the doctor; ‘you shall see the proof of what I am saying to you.’

Billot and Pitou entered the room at this instant. In three strides Pitou was at the side of the dreaming youth.

‘You asked for me, Sebastian,’ said Pitou to him; ‘that was very kind of you.’ And he placed his large head close to the pale face of the young lad.

‘Look I’ said Gilbert, seizing the abbe’s arm.

And indeed, Sebastian, thus abruptly aroused from his reverie by the cordial affection of Pitou, staggered, his face became more vividly pale, his head fell on one side, as if his neck had not sufficient strength to support it, a painful sigh escaped his breast, and then the blood again rushed to his face. He shook his head and smiled.

‘Ah, it is you, Pitou I Yes; that is true i I asked for you. You have been fighting, then?’

‘Yes, and like a brave lad, too.’ said Billot.

‘Why ‘lid you not take me with you?’ said the child, in a reproachful tone. ‘I would have fought also, and then I should at least have done something for my father.’

‘Sebastian,’ said Gilbert, going to his son, ‘you can do

iW TAKING THE BASTTTJ.R

much more for your father than to fight for him; you can listen to his advice, and follow it become a distinguished and celebrated man.’

‘As you are?’ said the boy, with proud emotion. ‘Oh, it is that which I aspire to.

‘Sebastian,’ said the doctor, ‘now that you have embraced both Billot and Pitou, our good friends, will you come into the garden with me for a few minutes, that we may have a little talk together?’

‘With great delight, father. Only two or three times in my whole life have I been alone with you, and those moments, with all their details, are always present in my memory.’

‘Billot and Pitou, you must, my friends, stand in need of some refreshment r ‘ said Gilbert.

‘Upon my word, I do,’ said Billot. ‘I have eaten nothing since the morning, and I believe that Pitou has fasted as long as I have.

‘I beg your pardon,’ replied Pitou; ‘I ate a crumb of bread and two or three sausages, just the moment before 1 dragged you out of the water; but a bath always makes one hungry.’

‘Well, then, come to the refectory,’ said the Abb* Berardier, ‘and you shall have some dinner.’ And he led off Billot and Pitou by one door, while Gilbert and his son, waving their hands to them, went out at another.

The latter crossed a yard which served as a playground to the young collegians, and went into a small garden reserved for the professors.

Gilbert seated himself upon a bench, overshadowed by an alcove of clematis ana virgin vines; then, drawing Sebastian close to him. and parting the long hair which fell upon his forehead i ‘Well, my child.’ said he, ‘we are, then, once more united.’

‘Yes, father, and by a miracle performed by God.’

Gilbert smiled. ‘If there be any miracle,’ said he, ‘it was the brave people of Paris who have accomplished it.’

‘My father.’ said the boy, ‘set not God aside in all that has just occurred; for I, when I saw you come in, instinctively offered my thanl^g to God for your deliverance.’

‘And Billot?’

‘Billot I thanked after thanking God.’

Gilbert reflected.

‘You are right, child.’ said he; ‘God is in everything.

SEBASTIAN GILBERT rj

But now let us talk of you, and let us have some little conversation before we again separate.’

‘Are we, then, to be again separated, father?’

‘Not for a long time, I hope. But a casket, containing some very precious documents, has disappeared from Billot’s house, at the same time that I was arrested and sent to the Bastille. I must, therefore, endeavour to discover who it was that caused my imprisonment who has carried off the casket.’

‘It is well, father. I will wait to see you again till your inquiries shall be completed.’

And the boy sighed deeply.

‘You are sorrowful, Sebastian?’ said the doctor.

‘Yes.’

‘And why are you sorrowful?’

‘I do not know. It appears to me that life has not been shaped for me as it has been for other children. They all have amusements, pleasures, while I have none.’

‘You have no amusements, no pleasures?’

‘I mean to say, father, that I take no pleasure in those games which form the amusement of boys of my own age.’

‘Take care, Sebastian; I should much regret that you should be of such a disposition. Sebastian, minds that give promise of a glonous future are like good fruits during their growth : they have their bitterness, their acidity, their greenness, before they can delight the palate by their matured full flavour. Believe me, my child, it is good to have been young.’

‘It is not my fault if I am not so,’ replied the young man, with a melancholy smile.

Gilbert pressed both his son’s hands within his own, and fixing his eye intently upon Sebastian’s, continued : ‘Your age, my son, is that of the seed when germinating; nothing should yet appear above the surface of all that study has sown in you. At the age of fourteen, Sebastian, gravity is either pride, or it proceeds from malady. I have asked you whether your health was good, and you replied affirmatively. I am going to ask you whether you are proud; try to reply to me that you are not.’

‘Father,’ said the ooy, ‘on that head you need not be alarmed. That which renders me so gloomy is neither sickness nor pride no, it is a settled gnef.’

‘A settled grief, poor child I And what grief can you have at your age ? Come, now, speak out.’

168 TAKING THE BASTILLE

‘No, father, no; some other time. You have told me that you were in a hurry. You have only a quarter of an hour to devote to me. Let us speak of other things than my follies.’

‘No, Sebastian, I should be uneasy were I to leave you so. Tell me whence proceeds your grief.’

‘In truth, father, I dp not dare. I fear that in your eyes I shall appear a visionary, or perhaps that I may speak to you of things that will afflict you.’

‘You afflict me much more by withholding your secret from me.’

‘You well know that I have no secrets from you, father.’

‘Speak out, then.’

‘Well, then, father, it is a dream.’

‘A dream which terrifies you ?’

‘Yes, and no; for when I am dreaming I am not terrified, but as if transported into another world. When still quite a child I had these visions. You cannot but remember that two or three times I lost myself in those great woods which surround the village in which I was brought up?’

‘Yes, I remember being told of it.’

‘Well, then, at those times I was following a species of phantom.’

‘What say you?’ cried Gilbert, looking at his son with an astonishment that seemed closely allied to terror.

‘I will tell you all. I used to play, as did the other children in the village. As long as there were children with me, or near me, I saw nothing; but if I separated from them, or went beyond the last village garden, I felt something near, like the rustling of a gown. I would stretch out my arms to catch it, and I embraced only the air; but as the rustling sound became lost in distance, the phantom itself became visible. It was at first a vapour as transparent as a cloud : then the vapour became more condensed, and assumed a human form. The form was that of a woman gliding along the ground rather than walking, and becoming more and more visible as it plunged into the shady parts of the forest. Then an unknown, extraordinary, and almost irresistible power impelled me to pursue this form. I pursued her with outstretched arms, mute as herself; for often I attempted to call to her, and never could my tongue articulate a sound. I pursued her thus, although she never stopped, although I never could come up with her. until the same