64
MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAK
lome moments the pure and generous current of youth
spouted forth freely.
"Ha! we shall save him,"said the operator. ."But
he will require great care ; his chest has been rudely
pressed."
"I have now to thank you, Sir," said Rousseau, and
praise you, not for the exclusive preference you show
for the poor, but for your care and kindness towards
them.   All men are brothers."
"Even the noble, even the aristocrats, even the
rich?" asked the surgeon, his piercing eye flashing
from beneath his heavy eyelid.
" Even the noble, the aristocrats, the rich, when they
suffer," said Rousseau.
"Sir," said the operator, "excuse me. lam from
Baudry.'near Neufchâtel ; I am a Switzer like yourself,
and therefore a democrat."
"A countryman?" cried Rousseau, "a native of
Switzerland!   -Your name, Sir, if you please?"
"An obscure name, Sir; the name of a retiring man
who devotes his life to study, waiting, till he may, like
yourself, devote it to the good of humanity. My name
is Jean Paul Marat. "
"Thanks, Monsieur Marat," said Rousseau. "But
whilst enlightening the people as to their rights, do
not excite them to vengeance; for if they should ever
revenge themselves, you will perhaps be terrified at
their reprisals."
Marat smiled a fearful smile.
"Ohl if that day should happen during my life!"
said he; "if I could only have the happiness to wit-
ness it."   v
Rousseau heard these words, and, alarmed at the
tone in which they were uttered, as a traveller trembles
at the first mutterings of the far-distant thunder, ho
took Gilbert in his arms, and attempted to carry him
away.
"Two volunteers to help Monsieur Rousseau! Two
men of the people!" cried the surgeon.
"Here! here! here!" cried twenty voices simultan-
eously.
Rousseau had only to choose; he pointed to the two
strongest, who took the youth up in their arras.
As he was leaving the place he passed Philip.
"Here, Sir," said he, "I have no more use for the
lantern; take it."
."Thank you, Sir," said Philip; " many thanks."
He seized the lantern, and while Rousseau once more
took the way to the Rue Plastriere, he continued his
search.
"Poor young man!" murmured Rousseau, turning
back, and seeing Philip disappear in the blocked-up
and encumbered streets. He proceeded on his way
shuddering, for he still heard the shrill voice of the
surgeon echoing over the field of blood, and crying:
"The men of the people! None but the men of the
people 1   Woe to the noble, to the rich, to the aristo-
Chapter LXVII.—The Return.
While the countless catastrophes we have men-
tioned were rapidly succeeding each other, M. de Ta-
verney escaped all these dangers as if by a miracle.
Unable to oppose any physical resistance to the de-
vouring force which swept away everything in its pas
sage, but at the same time calm and collected, he had
Succeeded in maintaining his position in the centre of
a group which was rolling onwards towards the Rue de
la Madeleine. This group, crushed against the parapet
walls;of the Place, ground against, the angles of the
Garde Meuble, had left a long trail of wounded and
dead in its path ; but, decimated as it was, it had yet
succeeded injconductiug the remnant of its number to a
Elace of safety. When this was accomplished, the
andful of men and women who had been left, dis-
persed themselves over the boulevards with cries of
joy, and;M. de Taverney found himself, like ids compan-
ions, completely out of danger.
What we are about to say would be difficult to be-
lieve, had we not already so frankly sketched the char-
acter of the baron. During tlie whole of this fearful
passage, M. de Taverney—may God forgive him!—had
absolutely thought only of himself. Besides that he
Mias not of a very affectionate disposition, he was a
man of action ; and, in the great crises of life, such
characters always put the adage of Caesar's, age quod
agis, in practice. We shall not say, therefore, that
M. de Taverney was utterly selfish, we shall merely
admit that he was absent. But once upon the pave-
ment of the boulevards, once more, master of his ac-
tions, sensible of having escaped from death to life,
satisfied, in short, of his safety, the baron gave a deep
sigh of satisfaction, followed by a cry—feeble and
wailing—a cry of grief.
" My daughter!" said he, "my daughter!" and he
remained motionless, his hands fell by his side, his
eyes were fixed and glassy, while he searched his mem-
ory for ail the particulars of their separation.
"Poor dear man !" murmured some compassionate
women.
A group had collected around the baron, ready to
pity, but above all to question. But M. de Taverney
had no popular instincts; he felt ill at ease in the cen-
tre of this compassionate group, and making a success-
ful effort he broke through them, and. we say it to his
praise, made a few steps towards the Place.
But these few steps were the unreflecting movement
of paternal love, which is never entirely extinguished
in the heart of man. Reason immediately came to
the baron's aid aind arrested his steps.
We will follow, with the reader's permission, the
course of his reasoning. First, the impossibility of re-
turning to the Place Louis XV. occurred to him. In
it there was only confusion and death, and the crowds
which were still rushing from it would have rendered
any attempt to pass through them as futile as for the
swimmer to seek to ascend the fall of the Rhine at
Schaffhausen Besides, even if a Divine arm enabled
him to reach the place, how could he hope to find one
woman among a hundred thousand women? And
why should he expose himself again, and fruitlessly,
to a death from which he had so miraculously escaped ?
Then came hope, that light which ever gilds the
clouds of the darkest night. Was not Andrée near
Philip, resting on his arm, protected by his manly arm
and his brother's heart?
That he, the baron, a feeble and tottering old man,
Should have been carried away, was very natural; but
that Philip, with his ardent, vigorous, hopeful nature
—Philip with his arm of iron—Philip responsible |for
his sister's safety—should be so, was impossible. Philip
had struggled, and must have conquered.
The baron, like all selfish men, endowe 1 Philip with
those qualities which his selfishness denied to himself,
bttt which nevertheless he sought in others—strength,
generosity, and valor. For one selfish man regards all
other selfish men as rivals and enemies, who rob him
of those advantages which he believes he has the right
of reaping from society.
M. de Taverney, being thus reassured by the force of
his own arguments, concluded that Philip had natu-
rally saved his sister; that he had perhaps lost some
time in seeking his father, to save him also, but that
probably, nay certainly, he had taken the way to the
Rue Coq-Heron, to conduct Andrée, who must be a
little alarmed by all the scene, home.
He therefore wheeled round, and descending the Rue
des Capucines, he gained the Place des Conquêtes, or
Louis le Grand, now called the Place des Victoires.
But scarcely had the baron arrived within twenty
paces of the hotel, when Nicole, placed as a sentinel on
the threshold where she was chattering with some
companions, exclaimed: "And Monsieur Philip? and
Mademoiselle Andrée? What has become of them?"
For all Paris was already informed by the earliest
fugitives of the catastrophe, which their terror had
even exaggerated.
"Oh! Heavens!" cried the baron, a little agitated,
"have they not returned, Nicole?"
" No, no, sir, they have not been seen."
"They most probably have been obliged to make a
detour," replied the baron, trembling more and more
in proportion as the calculations of his logic were de-
molished; and he remained standing in the street
waiting in his turn along with Nicole, who was sobbing,
and La Brie, who raised his clasped hands to Heaven.
" Ah!-here is M. Philip!" exclaimed Nicole, in a tone
of indescribable terror, for Philip was alone.
And in the darkness of the night, Philip was seen
running towards them, breathless and despairing.
"Is my sister here?" cried he, while yet at a dis-
tance, as soon as he could see the group assembled at
the door of the hotel.
"Oh, my God!" exclaimed the baron, pale and
trembling.
" Andrée ! Andrée !" cried the young man, approach-
ing nearer and nearer; " where is Andrée?"
" We have not seen her; she is not here, Monsieur
Philip. Oh! Heavens! my dear young lady!" cried
Nicole, bursting into tears.                                   »
" And yetyou have returned?" said the.baron, in a
tone of anger, which must seem to the reader the mare
unjust, that we have already made him acquainted with
the secrets of his logic.
Philip, instead of replying, approached and showed
his bleeding face, and his arm, broken and hanging at
his side like a withered branch.
" Alas ! alas !" sighed the old man, " Andrée ! my
poor Andrée?" and he sank back upon the stone bench
beside the door.
"I will find her living or dead!" exclaimed Philip,
gloomily. And he again started off with feverish'activ-
ity. Without slackening his pace, he secured his left
arm in the opening of his vest, for this useless limb
would have fettered his movements in the crowd, and
if he had had a, hatchet at that moment, he would have
struck it off. It was then that he met on that fatal field
of the dead, Rousseau,Gilbert, and the fierce and gloomy
operator who, covered with blood, seemed rather an
infernal demon presiding over the massacre, than a
beneficent genius appearing to succor and to help.
During a greater portion of the night, Philip wandered
over the Place Louis XV. unable to tear himself away
from the walls of the Garde Meuhle, near which Gilbert
had been found, and incessantly gazing at the piece of
white muslin wliich the young man had held firmly
grasped infusfcand.
But wherrThe first light of day appeared, worn-out,
ready to sink among the heaps of corpses scarcely
paler than himself, seized with a strange giddiness, and
hoping as his father had hoped, that Andrée might
have returned or been carried back to the house, Philip
bent his steps once more towards the Rue Coq-Heron.
While still at a distance he saw the same group he had
left there, and guessing at once that Andrée had not
returned, he stopped. The baron, on his side, had re-
cognized his son..
" Well?" cried he.
"What! has my sister not returned?" asked the
young man.
" Alas I" cried, with one voice, the baron, Nicole, and
La Brie.
" Nothing—no news—no information—no hope?"
"Nothing!"
Philip fell upon the stone bench of the hotel: the
baron uttered a savage exclamation.
At this very moment a hackney-coach appeared at the
end of the street; it approached slowly, and stopped
in front of the hotel. A woman's head was seen
through the door, resting on her shoulders, as if she
had fainted. 'Philip, roused by this sight, hastened to-
wards the vehicle. The door of the coach opened, and
a man alighted, bearing the senseless form of Andrée
in his arms.
"Dead! dead! They bring us her corpse!" cried
Philip, falling on his knees.
"Dead!" stammered the baron, "oh, Sir, is she in-
deed dead?"
•' I think not, gentlemen," calmly replied the man
who carried Andrée; "Mademoiselle de Taverney, I
hope, is only in a swoon."
"Oh", the sorcerer, the sorcerer!" cried the baron.
"The Count de Balsamo!" murmured Philip.
"The same, Sir, and truly happy in having recog
nized Mademoiselle de Taverney in this frightful
melee."
" In what part of it, Sir?" asked Philip.
" Near the Garde Meuble."
"Yes," said Philip. Then, his expression of joy
changing suddenly to one of gloomy distrust:
" You bring her back very late, Count," said he.
"Sir," replied Balsamo, without seeming in the least
surprised, " you may easily comprehend my embarass-
ing situation. I did not know your sister's address,
and I had no resource but to take her to the Mar-
chioness de Sevigny's, a friend of mine who lives near
the royal stables. Then this honest fellow whom you
see, and who assisted me to rescue the young lady—
come hither, Courtois." Balsamo accompanied these
last words by a sign, and a man in the royal livery ap-
peared from the coach. "Then," continued Balsamo,
" this worthy fellow, who belongs to the royal stables,
recognized the young lady, as having one evening
driven her from Muette to your hotel. Mademoiselle
Taverney owes this lucky recognition to her marvellous
beauty. I made him accompany me in the coach, and
I have the honor to restore Mademoiselle de Taverney
to you, with all the respect due to her, and less in-
jured than you think."    And  as  he  concluded he
gave the young girl into the care of her father an_
Nicole.               ¦                                                 ,,.
Forthe first time, the baron felt a tear tremblmg on
his eyelids, and though, no doubt, inwardly surprised
at this mark of feeling, he permitted it to roll un-
heeded down his wrinkled cheeks. Philip held out the
only hand he had at liberty to Balsamo.
" Sir," he said, " you know my name and my address.
Give me an opportunity of showing my gratitude for
the service you have rendered us."
" I have only fulfilled a duty," replied Balsamo. " Do
I not owe you hospitality?" And, bowing low, he made
a few steps to retire, without replying to the baron's
invitation to enter.   But returning-----
"Excuse me," said he, "but I omitted to give you
the exact address of the Marchioness de Sevigr.y. She
lives in the Rue ' St. Honore, near the Fueillants. I
thought it necessary to give you this information, in
case Mademoiselle de Taverney should think proper to
caîl on her."
There was in this precision of details, in this accumu-
lation of proofs, a delicacy which touched Philip
deeply, and affected even the baron.
"Sir," said the baron, "my daughter owes her life to
you."
"I know it. Sir, and I feel proud and happy at the
thought," replied Balsamo.
And this time, followed by Courtois, who refused
Philip's proffered purse, he entered the fiacre, which
drove off rapidly.
Almost at the same moment, and as if Balsamo's de-
parture had put an end to her swoon, Andrée opened
her eyes, but she remained for some minutes mute,
bewildered, and with a wild and staring look.
"Oh, Heavens!" murmured Philip ; "has Providence
only half restored her to us?   Has her reason fled?"
Andrée seemed to comprehend these words, and
shook her head; but she remained silent, and as if
under the influence of a sort of ecstasy. Sho was still
standing, and one of her arms was extended in the
direction of the street by which Balsamo had disap-
peared.
"Come, come," said the baron; "it is time to end
all this.   Assist your sister into the house, Philip."
The young man supported Andrée with his unin-
jured arm. Nicole sustained her on the other side;
and, walking on, but after the manner of a sleeping
person, she entered the hotel and gained her apart-
ments. There, for the first time, the power of speech
returned.
"Philip!   My father!" said she.
" She recognizes us ! she knows us again !" exclaimed
Philip.
"Of course, I know y ou again ; but oh, Heavens 1 what
has happened?"
And Andrée closed her eyes, but this time not in a
swoon, but a calm and peaceful slumber.
Nicole, left alone with her young mistress, undressed
her and put her in bed.
When Philip returned to his apartments, he found
there a physician whom the thoughtful La Brie had
run to summon, as soon as the anxiety on Andree's ac-
count had subsided.
The" doctor examined Philip's arm. It was noti
broken, but only dislocated, and a sldiful compression
replaced the shoulder in tlie socket from which it had
been removed. After the operation, Philip, who wa*
still uneasy on his sister's account, conducted the doc-
tor to her bedside.
The doctor felt her pulse, listened to her breathing,
and smiled.
"YXursister sleeps as calmly as an infant," said he.
" Let her sleep, Chevalier; there is nothing else neces-
sary to be done."
As for the baron, sufficiently reassured on his chil-
dren's account, he had long been sound asleep.
Chapter LXVIII.—M. De Jussieu.
We must again transport the reader to the house iu
the Rue Plastriere where M. de Sartines had sent his
agent, and there, on the morning of tho 31st of May,
v.-e*shall once more find Gilbert stretched upon a mat-
tress in Therese's room, and, standing around him,
Thérèse and Rousseau with several of their neighbors,
contemplating this specimen of the dreadful event at
the remembrance of which all Paris still shuddered.
Gilbert, pale and bleeding, opened his eyes ; and as
soon as he regained his consciousness, he endeavored
to raise himself and look round, as if he were still ia
the Place Louis XV. An expression of profound
anxiety, followed by one of triumphant joy, was pic-
tured in his features; then a second cloud flitted across
his countenance, which resumed its sombre hue.
"Are you suffering, m3' dear child?" inquired Rous-
seau, taking his hand affectionately.
"Ohl who has saved me?" asked Gilbert.    "Who
thought of me, lonely and friendless being that ï am?"
" What saved you, my child, was the happy chance
that you were not yet dead.   He who thought of you
was the same Almighty Being who minks of all."
" No matter; it is very imprudent," grumbled Thérèse,
"to go among such a crowd."
"YTes, yes. it is very imprudent," repeated all the
neighbors, %ith one voice.
"Why, ladies," interrupted Rousseau, "there is no
imprudence when there is no manifest danger, and
there is no manifest danger in going to see fireworks.
When danger arrives under such circumstances, you
do not call the sufferer imprudent, but unfortunate.
Any of us present would have done the same."
Gilbert looked round, and seeing'himself in Rousseau's
apartment, endeavored to speak, butthe. effort was too
much for him: the blood gushed from bis mouth and
nostr ils,and he sunk back insensible. Rousseau had
been warned by the surgeon of the Place Louis XV.,
aud therefore was not alarmed. In expectation of a
similar event, he Xd placed the invalid on a temporary
mattress without sheets.
" In the meantime," said.he to Thérèse, " you may put
the poor lad to bed."
" Where?"
"Why here, in my bed."
Gilbert, heard these words.   Extreme weakness alone
prevented his replying immediately, but he made a   '
violent effort, and, opening his eyes, said, slowly and
painfully, "No, no; upstairs."
" You wish to return to your own room ?"
"Yes, yes, if you please;" and he completed with
his eyes, rathter than with his tongue, this wish, dic-
tated by a recollection still more powerful than pain,
and which with him seemed- to survive even his con-
sciousness.
Rousseau, whose own sensibility was so extreme,
doubtless understood him, for he added:
"It is well, my child; we will carry you up.  He d069
1