6 fi
MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN.
Nicole raised her hands V> take down the lace, let fall
some of it, and, in picking it up again, seized the stone.
As yet Gilbert could understand nothing of this
movement, but seeing Nicole pick up the stone as a
greedy school-boy picks up a nut, and unroll a slip of
paper which was tied round it, he at once guessed the
degree of importance which was attached to this
aerolite.
It was, in fact, neither more nor less than a note
which Nicole had found rolled round the stone. The
cunning girl quickly unfolded it, read it, and put it into
her pocket, and then immediately .discovered that there
was" no more occasion for looking at the lace—it was
dry.
Meanwhile Gilbert shook his head, saying to himself,
with the blind selfb-ihiiess of men who entertain a bad
opinion of women, that Nicole was in reality a viciously
inclined person, and that he, Gilbert, had performed
an act of sound and moral policy in breaking off so
suddenly and ?x> boldly with a girl who bad letters
thrown to her over the wall.
NicoI-3 ran back to the house, and soon reappeared,
this time holding her hand in her pocket. She drew
from it a key, which Gilbert saw glitter in her hand for
a moment, and then the young girl slipped this key un-
der a little door which served to admit the gardener,
and which was situated at the extremity of the wall
opposite the street, and parallel to the great door
which was generally used.
"Good!" said Gilbert, "I understand—a love-letter
and a rendezvous. Nicole loses no time; she has al-
ready a new lover."
And he frowned, with the disappointment of a man
who thinks that his loss should cause an irreparable
void in the heart of the woman he abandons, and who
finds this void completely filled.
" This may spoil all my projects," he continued, seek-
ing a factitious cause for his ill-humor. " No matter,"
resumed he, after a moment's silence, "I shall not be
sorry to know the happy mortal who succeeds me in
Mademoiselle Nicole's good graces."
But Gilbert, on certain subjects, had a very discern-
ing judgment. He calculated that the discovery
which he had made, and whieh Nicole was far from
suspecting, .would give him an advantage over her
which might be of use to him; since he knew her se-
cret, with such details as she could not deny, while she
scarcely suspected his, and, even if she did, there ex-
isted no facts which could give a color to her suspicions.
During all these goings and comings, the anxiously ex-
pected night had come on.
The only thing which Gilbert now feared was the re-
turn of Rousseau, who might surprise him on the roof
or on the staircase, or might come up and find his
room empty.   In the latter case, the anger of the
Ehilosopher of Geneva would bo terrible, but Gilbert
oped to avert the blow by means of the following
note, wliich he left upon his little table, addressed to
the philosopher:
" My dear and illustrious protector:
"Do not think ill of me, if, notwithstanding your
recommendations, and even against your order, I
have dared to leave my apartment. I shall soon re-
turn, unless some accident, similar to that which has
already happened to me, should again take place; but
at the risk of a similar, or even a worse accident, I
must leave my room for two hours."
"I do not know what I shall say when I return,"
thought Gilbert, " but at least Monsieur Rousseau will
not be uneasy or angry."
The evening was dark. A suffocating heat prevailed,
as it often does during the first warmths of spring. The
sky was cloudy, and at half-past eight the most prac-
tised eye could have distinguished nothing at the bot-
tom of the dark gulf into which Gilbert peered.
It was then, for the first time, that the young man
perceived that he breathed with difficulty, and that
sudden perspirations bedewed his forehead and breast
— unmistakeable signs of a weak and unhinged sys-
tem. Prudence counselled him not to undertake, in his
present condition, an expedition for which strength and
steadiness in all his members were peculiarly neces-
sary, not only to ensure success, but even for the pres-
ervation of his life ; but Gilbert did not listen to what
his physical instincts counselled.
His moral will spoke more ioudly; and to it, as ever,
the young man vowed obedience.
The moment had come. Gilbert "rolled his rope
several times round his neck, and commenced, with
beating heart, to scale the skylight; then, firmly grasp-
ing the casement, he made the first step in the spout
towards the sky-light on the right, which was, as we
have said, that of the staircase and about two fathoms
distant from his own.
His feet in a groove of lead, at the utmost eight
inches wide, which groove, though it was supported
here and there by holdfasts of iron, yet, from the plia-
bility of the lead, yielded to his steps; his hands rest-
ing against the tiles, which could only be a point of
support for his equilibrium, but no help in case of fall-
ing, since the fingers could take no hold of them; this
was Gilbert's position during this aerial passage which
lasted two minutes, but which seemed to Gilbert to
occupy two centuries.
But Gilbert determined not to be afraid; and such
was the power of will in this young man, that he pro-
ceeded. He recollected to have heard a rope-dancer
say, that, to walk safely on narrow ways one ought
never to look downwards but about ten feet in ad-
vance, and never think of the abyss beneath, but as an
eagle might, that is, with the conviction of being able
to float over it at pleasure. Besides, Gilbert had al-
ready put these precepts in practice in several visits
he had paid to Nicole—that Nicole who was now so
bold that she made use of keys and doors instead of
roofs and chimneys.
In this manner he had often passed the sluices of the
mill at Taverney, and the naked beams of the roof of
an old barn. He arrived, therefore, at the goal with-
out a shudder, and. once arrived there, he glided be-
neath the skylight, and with a thrill of joy alighted on
the staircase. But on reaching the landing-place he
stopped short. Voices were heard on the lower stories;
they were those of Thérèse and certain neighbors of
hers, who were speaking of Rousseau's genius, of the
merit of his books, and of the harmony of his music.
The neighbors had read "La Nouvelle Iléloïse," and
confessed frankly that they found the book obscure.
In reply to this criticism Madame Thérèse observed
This edifying conversation was held from one land-
ing-place to another; and the fire of discussion, ardent
as it was, was less so than that of the stoves on which
the savory suppers of these ladies were cooking. Gil-
bert was listening to the arguments, therefore, and
snuffing the smell of the viands, when his name,- pro-
nounced in the midst of the tumult, caused him to
start rather unpleasantly.
"After my supper," said Thérèse, "I must go and
see if that dear child does not want something in his
attic."
This dear child gave Gilbert fess pleasure than the
promise of the visit gave him alarm. Luckily, he re-
membered that Thérèse, when she supped alone,
chatted a long time with her bottle, that the meat
seemed savory, and that after supper meant—
ten o'clock. It was now only a quarter to nine. Be-
sides it was probable that, after supper, the course of
ideas in Therese's brain would take a change, (»nd that
she would then think of anything else rather than of
the dear child.
But time was slipping past, to the great vexation of
Gilbert, when all at once one of the joints of the allied
dames began to burn.
The cry of the alarmed cook wras heard, which put
an end to all conversation, for every ono hurried to the
theatre of the catastrophe. Gilbert profited by this
culinary panic among the ladies, to glide down the
stairs like a shadow.
Arrived at the first story, he found ^the leading of
the window well adapted to hold his rope, and, attach-
ing it by a slip-knot, he mounted the window-sill and
began rapidly to descend.
He was still suspended between the window and the
ground, when a rapid step sounded in the garden be-
neath him. He had sufficient time, before the step
reached him, to return, and holding fast by the knots,
he watched to see who this untimely visitor was.
It was a man, and as he proceeded from the direction
of the little door, Gilbert did not doubt for an instant
but that it was the happy mortal whom Nicole was
expecting.
He fixed all his attention therefore upon this second
intruder, who had thus arrested him in the midst of
his perilous descent. By his.walk, by a glance at his
profile seen from beneath his three-cornered hat, and
by the particular mode ill wdiich this hat was placed
over the corner of his attentive ear, Gilbert fancied he
recognized the famous Beausire, that exempt whose
acquaintance Nicole had made in Taverney.
Almost immediately he saw Nicole open the door of
the pavilion, hasten into the garden, leaving the door
open, and, light and active as a bird, direct her steps
towards the greenhouse, that is to say, in the direction
in which M. Beausire was already advancing.
This was most certainly not the first rendezvous
which had taken place, since neither one nor other
betrayed the least hesitation as to their place of meet-
ing.
"Now, lean finish my descent," thought Gilbert;
" for, if Nicole has appointed this hour for meeting her
lover, it must be because she is certain of being undis-
turbed. Andrée must be alone then—oh, heavens!
alone."
In fact, no noise was heard in the house, and only a
faint light gleamed from the windows of the ground-
floor. Gilbert alighted upon the ground without any
accident, and, unwilling to cross the garden, he glided
gently along the wall until he came to a clump of trees,
crossed it in a stooping posture, and arrived at the door
which Nicole had left open, without having been discov-
vered. There, sheltered by an immense aristolochia.
which was trained over the door and hung down in large
festoons, he observed that the outer apartment, which
was a spacious ante-chamber, was, as he haA guessed,
perfectly empty.This ante-chamber communicated with
the interior of the house by means of two doors, one
opened, the other closed ; Gilbert guessed that the open
one was that belonging to Nicole's chamber. He softly
entered this room, stretching out his hands before him
for fear of accident, for the room was entirely without
light; but, at the end of a sort of corridor was seen a
glass door whose framework was clearly designed
against the light of the adjoining apartment. On the
inner side of this glass door was drawn a muslin cur-
tain.
As Gilbert advanced along the corridor, he heard a
feeble voice speaking in the lighted apartment; it was
Andree's, and every drop of Gilbert's blood rushed to
his heart. Another voice replied to hers; it was
Philip's. The young man was anxiously inquiring after
his sister's health.
Gilbert, now on his guard, proceeded a few steps
farther, and placed himself behind one of those trun-
cated columns surmounted by a bust, which, at that
period, formed the usual ornament of double doors.
Thus concealed, he strained his eyes and ears to the
utmost stretch; so happy, that his heart melted with
joy; so fearful, that the same heart shrunk together till
it seemed to become only a minute point in his breast.
He listened and gazed.
Chapter LXXI.—The Brother and Sister.
Gilbert, as we have said, gazed and listened.   He
saw Andrée stretched on a reclining chair, her face
turned towards the glass door, that is to say, directly
towards him.   This door was slightly ajar.
A small lamp with a deep shade was placed upon an
adjoining table—which was covered with books, indi-
cating the only species of recreation permitted to the
invalid—and lighted only the lower part of Mademoi-
selle de Taverney's face. Sometimes, however, when
she leaned back, so as to rest against the pillow of the
inclining chair, the light overspread her marble fore-
head, which was veiled in a lace cap. Philip was sit-
ting at the foot of ner chair with his back towards Gil-
bert; his arm was still in a sling, and all exercise of it
was forbidden.
It was the first time that Andrée had been up, and
the first time also that Philip had left his room. The
young people, therefore, had not seen each other since
that terrible night, but each knew that the other was
recovering, and hastening towards convalescence.
They had only been together for a few moments, and
were conversing without restraint, for they knew that
even if any one should interrupt them, they would be
warned by the noise of the bell attached to the door
' so now you breathe more easily, nc%
which Nicole had left open.   But of course they were
not aware of the circumstances of the door having been
left open, and they calculated upon the bell.
Gilbert saw and heard all, therefore; for, through
a dressing-room,
poor sister?"
" Yes, more easily, but still with a slight pain."
" And your strength?"
" Returns but slowly; nevertheless, I have been able
to walk to the window two or three times to-day How
sweet the fresh air is, ho vv lovely the flowers ! It seems
to me that, surrounded with air and flowers, it is im-
possible to die."
" But still you are very weak; are you not, Andrée?"
" Oh! yes, for the shock was a terrible one! There-
fore," continued the young girl, smiling and shaking
her head, " I repeat that I walk with difficulty, and
am obliged to lean on the tables and the projecting
points of the wainscoting. Without this support my
limbs bend under me, and I feel as if I should every
moment fall."
" Courage, Andrée! The fresh air and the beautiful
flowers you spoke of just now, will cure you, and in a
week you will be able to pay a visit to the dauphiness
who, I am informed, sends t o inquire so kindly for you. ' '
"Yes, I hope so, Philip: for the dauphiness in truth
seems most kind to me."
And Andrée, ieaning back, put her hand upon her
chest and closed her lovely eyes.
Gilbert made a step forward with outstretched arms.
"You are in pain, my sister?"asked Philip, taking
her hand.
"Yes, at times I have slight spasms, and sometimes
the blood mounts to my head and my temples throb;
sometimes again I feel qui te giddy, and my heart sinks
within me."
" Oh," said Philip, dreamily, "that is not surprising;
you have met with a dreadful trial and your escape
was almost miraculous."
" Miraculous is, in truth, the proper term, brother.*'
" But, speaking of your miraculous escape, Andrée,"
said Philip, approaching closer to his sister, to give
more emphasis to the question, " do you know I have
never yet had an opportunity of speaking to you of
this catastrophe?"
Andrée blushed and seemed uneasy, but Philip did
not remark this change of color, or at ieast did not ap-
pear to remark it.
"I thought, however," said the young girl, "that the
person who restored me to you gave all the explana-
tions you could wish; my father, at I ast, told me he
was quite satisfied."
"Of course, my clear Andrée; and this man, so far
as I could judge, behaved with extreme delicacy in the
whole affair: but still some parts of his tale seemed to>
me, not suspicious, indeed, but obscure—that is the
proper term."
"How so, and what do you mean, brother?" asked
Andrée, with the frankness of innocence.
"For instance," said Philip,   "there is one point
which did not at first strike me, but which has since
seemed to me to bear a very strange aspect."
"Which?" asked Andrée.
" Why, the very manner in which you were saved.
Can you describe it to me?"
The young girl 'Seemed to make an effort over her-
self.
"Oh, Philip!" said she, "I have almost forgotten—I
was so much terrified."
"No matter, my sweetest Andrée; tell me all you
remember."
" Well, you know, brother, we were separated about
twenty paces from the Garde Meuble. I saw you
dragged away towards the garden of tue Tuileries,
while I was drawn towards the Rue Royale. For an in-
stant I could distinguish you making fruitless attempts
to rejoin me. I stretched out my arms towards you,
crying, Philip! Philip! when all at once I was. as it
were, seized by a whirlwind, which raised me aloft and
bore me in the direction of the railings. I felt the liv-
ing tide carrying me towards the wall, where i,t must
be dashed to atoms; I heard the cries of those who were
crushed against the railings; I felt that my turn would
come to be crushed and mangled; I could almost cal-
culate the number of seconds I had yet to live, when,
half dead and almost frantic, raising my hands and
eyes to Heaven in a last prayer, I met the burning
glance of a man who seemed to govern the crowd, and
whom the crowd seemed to obey."
"And this man was the Count Joseph Balsamo?"
"Yes; the same whom I had already seen at Ta-
verney—the same who, even there, inspired me with
such a strange terror; he, in short, who seems to be
endowed with some supernatural power, who has fas-
cinated my sight with his eyes, my ears with his voice;
who has made my whole being tremble by the mere
touch of his finger on my shoulder."
" Proceed, proceed, Andrée," said Philip, his feature»
and voice becoming gloomier as she spoke.
" Well, this man seemed to tower aioft above the
catastrophe, as if human suffering could not reach
him. I read in his eyes that he wished to save me—
that he had the power to do so. Then something ex-
traordinary took place in me and around me. Bruised,
powerless, half-dead as I was, I felt myself raised to-
wards this man as if some unknown, mysterious, in-
vincible power drew me to him. I felt as if some
strong arm, by a mighty effort, was lifting me out of
the gulf of mangled flesh in which so many unhappy
victims were suffocating, and was restoring me to air,
to life. Oh! Philip," continued Andrée, with a sort of
feverish vehemence, "I feel certain-'t was that man's
look which attracted me to him. I reached his hand, I
was saved!"
"Alas!" murmured Gilbert, "she had eyes only for
him : and I—I—who was dying at her feet—she saw me
not!"
He wiped his brow bathed in perspiration.
"That is how the affair happened, then?"   asked
Philip.
" Yes, up to the moment when I felt myself out of
danger. Then, whether all my force had been ex-
hausted in the last effort I had made, or whether the
terror I had experienced had outstripped the measure
of my strength I do not know, but 1 fainted."
"And at what time do you think you fainted?"
"About ten minutes after we were separated,
brother."
"Yes," pursued Philip, "that was about midnight.
How then did it happen that you did not return till

that they did not understand the philosophical part of : this open door, he could seize'every word of their con
this delightful book.  To tins the neighbors had nothing i versation
to reply, except to confess their incompetence to give ]     "So now," Philip was saying, just as Gilbert took his
an opinion on such a subject.                                           ¦ p]ace hehind a curtain hung loosely before the door of
three o'clock? Forgive me this catechising, which
may seem ridiculous to you, dear Andrée, but I have a
good reason for it."
"Thanks, Philip," said Andrée, pressing her broth-
er's hand. "Three days ago I could not have replied
to you as I have now done; but to-day—it may seem
strange to you what I am about to say—but to-day
1113- mental vision is stronger; it seems to me as if some