The Hero of the People: A Historical Romance of Love, Liberty and Loyalty

On seeing this but to so much despair, again the prey to woe, all his fibres of mercy were moved for so much misery.

Instead of using his hypnotic power to subdue her, he spoke softly to her, ready to master her if she became rebellious.

The result was that the medium felt the ethereal fluid fade away like a dissolving fog, by Gilbert’s permission, and she was able to speak of her own free will.

“What do you want, sir? how came you here?”

“By the way I used before,” replied the doctor. “Hence you can be easy – no one will know of it. Why? because I come to claim a treasure, of no consequence to you, but precious to me, my son. I want you to tell what has become of my son, taken away in your carriage and brought here.”

“How do I know? taught by you to hate his mother, he has fled.”

“His mother? are you really a mother to him?”

“Oh, you see my grief, you have heard my cries, and looking on my despair, you ask me if I am his mother?”

“How then are you ignorant what has become of him?”

“But I tell you he has fled; that I came into this room for him and found the window open and the room vacant.”

“Where could he have gone – good God!” exclaimed Gilbert. “It is past midnight and he does not know the town.”

“Do you believe anything evil has befallen him?” asked she, approaching.

“We shall hear, for it is you who shall tell me.”

And with a wave of the hand he began anew to plunge her into the mesmeric sleep.

She uttered a sigh and fell off into repose.

“Am I to put forth all my will power or will you answer voluntarily?” asked Gilbert when she was under control.

“Will you tell the boy again that I am not his mother?”

“That depends. Do you love him?”

“Ardently, with all my soul.”

“Then you are his mother as I am his father, for it is thus I love him. Loving him, you shall see him again. When did you part from the boy?”

“About half an hour ago, when Count Charny called. I had pushed him into this room.”

“What were his last words?”

“That I was no more his mother: because I had told him that you were a villain.”

“Look into the poor boy’s heart and see what harm you wrought.”

“Oh, God forgive me,” said Andrea: “forgive me, my son.”

“Did Count Charny suspect the boy was here?”

“No, I am sure.”

“Why did he not stay?”

“Because he never stays long with me. Oh, wretch that I am,” she interrupted herself, “he was returning to me after refusing that mission – because he loves me – he loves me!”

Gilbert began to see more clearly into this drama which his eye was first to penetrate.

“But do you love him?” he demanded.

“I see your intention is good: you wish to make up to me for the grief you have caused: but I refuse the boon coming from you. I hate you and wish to continue in my hatred.”

“Poor mortality,” muttered the philosopher, “have you had so much happiness that you can dally with a certain amount offered you? so you love him?”

“Yes. Since first I saw him, as the Queen and I sat with him in a hackney-carriage in which we returned from Paris to Versailles one night.”

“You know what love is, Andrea,” queried Gilbert, mournfully.

“I know that love has been given as a standard by which we can measure how much sadness we can endure,” replied she.

“It is well: you are a true woman and a true mother: a rough diamond, you were shaped by the stern lapidary known as Grief. Return to Sebastian.”

“Yes, I see him leaving the house with clenched hands and knit brow. He wanders up the street – he goes up to a woman and asks her for St. Honore Street – “

“My street: he was seeking for my house. Poor child! he will be there awaiting me.”

“Hold! he has gone astray – he is in New St. Roch Street. Oh, he does not see that vehicle coming down Sourdiere Street, but I see the horses – Ah!”

She drew herself up with an awful scream, maternal anguish depicted on her visage, down which rolled tears and perspiration.

“Oh, if harm befalls him, remember that it will recoil on your head,” hissed Gilbert.

“Ah,” sighed Andrea in relief, without hearing or heeding him, “God in heaven be praised! it is the horse’s breast which struck him, and he is thrown out of the rut of the wheel. There he lies, stunned, but he is not killed. Only swooned. Hasten to help him. It is my son! They form a crowd round him: is there not a doctor or surgeon among them all?”

“Oh, I shall run,” said Gilbert.

“Wait,” said Andrea, stopping him by the arm, “they are dividing to let help come. It is the doct – oh, do not let that man approach him – I loathe him – he is a vampire, he is hideous!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, do not lose sight of Sebastian,” said Gilbert, shuddering.

“This ghoul carries him away – up the street – into the blind alley, called St. Hyacinthe: where he goes down some steps. He places him on a table where books and printed papers are heaped. He takes off his coat and rolls up his sleeve. He ties the arm with bandages from a woman as dirty and hideous as himself. He finds a lance in a case – he is going to bleed him. Oh, I cannot bear to see my son’s blood flow. Run, run, and you will find him as I say.”

“Shall I awaken you at once with recollection: or would you sleep till the morning and know nothing of what has happened?”

“Awaken me at once with full memory.”

Gilbert described a double curve with his hands so that his thumbs came upon the medium’s eyelids; he breathed on her forehead and said merely: