The Mesmerist's Victim

“God hath sent to his bedside a charitable lord who took pity on him, and he is saying to himself: ‘I am not going to let poor Havard want for anything.’”

All looked at Balsamo, who smiled.

“Verily, we witness a singular incident,” remarked the head surgeon, as he took the patient’s hand and felt his pulse and his forehead. “This man is dreaming aloud.”

“Do you think so?” retorted the mesmerist. “Havard, awake,” he added with a look full of authority and energy.

The young man opened his eyes with an effort and gazed with profound surprise on the bystanders, become for him as inoffensive as they were menacing at the first.

“Ah, well,” he said, “have you not begun your work? Are you going to give me pain?”

Balsamo hastened to speak as he feared a shock to the sufferer. There was no need for him to hasten as far as the others were concerned as none of them could get out a word, their surprise was so great.

“Keep quiet, friend,” he said; “the chief surgeon has performed on your leg an operation which suits the requirement of your case. My poor lad, you must be rather weak of mind, for you swooned away at the outset.”

“I am glad I did for I felt nothing of it,” replied the Breton merrily: “my sleep was a sweet one and did me good. What a good thing that I am not to lose my leg.”

At this very moment he looked over himself, and saw the couch flooded with blood and the severed limb. He uttered a scream and swooned away, this time really.

“Question him, now, and see whether he will reply,” said Balsamo sternly to Marat.

Taking the chief surgeon aside while the aids carried the patient to his bed, he said:

“You heard what the poor fellow said – ”

“About his getting well?”

“About heaven having pity on him and inspiring a nobleman to help his family. He spoke the truth on that head as on the other. Will you please be the intermediary between heaven and your patient. Here is a diamond worth about twenty thousand livres; when the man is nearly able to go out, sell it and give him the money. Meanwhile, since the soul has great influence on the body, as your pupil Marat says justly, tell Havard that his future is assured.”

“But if he should not recover,” said the doctor hesitating.

“He will.”

“Still I must give you a receipt; I could not think of taking an object of this value otherwise.”

“Just as you please; my name is Count Fenix.”

Five minutes afterwards Balsamo put the receipt in his pocket, and went out accompanied by Marat.

“Do not forget your head!” said Balsamo, to whom the absence of mind in this cool student was a compliment.

Marat parted from the chief of the Order with doubt in his heart but meditation in his eyes, and he said to himself: “Does the soul really exist?”

CHAPTER XX

THE DIAMOND COLLAR

ROUSSEAU had been cheated into going to take breakfast with the royal favorite: he was formally invited by the Dauphiness to come to Trianon to conduct in person one of his operas in which she and her ladies and titled amateurs generally were to take the parts even to the supernumeraries.

He had not attired himself specially and he had stuffed his head with a lot of disagreeable plain truths to speak to the King, if he had a chance.

To the courtiers, however, it was the same to see him as any other author or composer, curiosities all, whom the grandees hire to perform in their parlors or on their lawns.

The King received him coldly on account of his costume, dusty with the journey in the omnibus, but he addressed him with the limpid clearness of the monarch which drove from Rousseau’s head all the platitudes he had rehearsed.

But as soon as the rehearsal was begun, the attention was drawn to the piece and the composer was forgotten.

But he was remarking everything; the noblemen in the dress of peasants sang as far out of tune as the King himself; the ladies in the attire of court shepherdesses flirted. The Dauphiness sang correctly, but she was a poor actress; besides, she had so little voice that she could hardly be heard. The Dauphin spoke his lines. In short, the opera scarcely got on in the least.

Only one consolation came to Rousseau. He caught sight of one delightful face among the chorus-ladies and it was her voice which sounded the best of all.

“Eh,” said the Dauphiness, following his look, “has Mdlle. de Taverney made a fault?”

Andrea blushed as she saw all eyes turn upon her.

“No, no!” the author hastened to say, “that young lady sings like an angel.”

Lady Dubarry darted a glance on him sharper than a javelin.

On the other hand Baron Taverney felt his heart melt with joy and he smiled his warmest on the composer.

“Do you think that child sings well?” questioned Lady Dubarry of the King, whom Rousseau’s words had visibly struck.

“I could not tell,” he said: “while they are all singing together. One would have to be a regular musician to discover that.”

Rousseau still kept his eyes on Andrea who looked handsomer than ever with a high color.

The rehearsal went on and Lady Dubarry became atrociously out of temper: twice she caught Louis XV. absent-minded when she was saying cutting things about the play.

Though the incident had also made the Dauphiness jealous, she complimented everybody and showed charming gaiety. The Duke of Richelieu hovered round her with the agility of a youth, and gathered a band of merrymakers at the back of the stage with the Dauphiness as the centre: this furiously disquieted the Dubarry clique.

“It appears that Mdlle. de Taverney is blessed with a pretty voice,” he said in a loud voice.

“Delightful,” said the princess; “if I were not so selfish, I would have her play Colette. But I took the part to have some amusement and I am not going to let another play it.”

“Nay, Mdlle. de Taverney would not sing it better than your Royal Highness,” protested Richelieu, “and – ”

“She is an excellent musician,” said Rousseau, who was penetrated with Andrea’s value in his line.

“Excellent,” said the Dauphiness; “I am going to tell the truth, that she taught me my part; and then she dances ravishingly, and I do not dance a bit.”

You may judge of the effect of all this on the King, his favorite, and all this gathering of the envious, curious, intriguers, and news-mongers. Each received a gain or a sting, with pain or shame. There were none indifferent except Andrea herself.

Spurred on by Richelieu, the Dauphiness induced Andrea to sing the ballad:

“I have lost my only joy —
Colin leaves me all alone.”

The King was seen to mark time with a nodding of the head, in such keen pleasure that the rouge scaled off Lady Dubarry’s face in flakes like a painting in the damp.