The Mesmerist's Victim

The toilet for the night being completed, Andrea gave her orders for the coming day. The tuner was to come for her harpsichord and some books which Philip had sent to Versailles were to be fetched. Nicole tranquilly answered that if she were not roused in the night she would be up early, and would do everything before her mistress rose.

As Andrea, in her long night wrapper, was dreaming in her chair, Nicole put two drops of the draught Richelieu had given her, into the glass of drink on the night-table. Turbid for a moment, the water took an opal tint which faded away gradually.

“Your night-drink is set out,” said the maid: “your dresses folded up and the night-light lit. As I must be up early, can I go to bed now?”

“Yes,” replied Andrea, absently.

Nicole went out and glided into the garden.

Gilbert was looking out for her as he promised himself he would do, and saw her go up to the gates where she passed the master key to Beausire, who was ready. The gate was opened and the girl slipped through. The gate was locked again and the key thrown over, where Gilbert noticed its place of falling on the sward.

He drew a long breath in relief for he was quit of Nicole, an enemy. Andrea was left alone, and he might penetrate to her room.

This idea set his blood boiling with all the fury of fear and disquiet, curiosity and desire.

But, as he placed his foot on the lowest stairs of the flight leading to Andrea’s corridor, he beheld her, garbed in white, at the top step, coming down.

So white and solemn was she that he recoiled, and buried himself in a copse.

Once before, at Taverney, he had seen her thus walking in her sleep, when she was, without his suspecting it, under the mesmeric influence of Balsamo, the Magician.

Andrea passed Gilbert, almost touched him but did not see him.

Bewildered and overwhelmed, he felt his knees crook beneath him: he was frightened.

Not knowing to what errand to ascribe this night roaming, he watched her: but his reason was confounded, and his blood beat with impetuosity in his temples, being nearer folly than the coolness which a good observer ought to possess. He viewed her as he had always done since this fatal passion had entered his heart.

All of a sudden he thought the mystery was revealed: Andrea was not wandering out of her mind, but going to keep an appointment, albeit her step was slow and sepulchral.

A lightning flash illumined the sky. By its bluish glare Gilbert caught sight of a man, hiding in the linden walk, with pale visage and clothes in disorder. He stretched out one hand towards the girl as though to beckon her to him.

Something like pincers nipped Gilbert’s heart and he half rose to see the better.

Another lightning stroke streaked the sky.

He recognized Baron Balsamo, covered with dust, who had by the aid of mysterious intelligence, entered the locked-up Trianon, and was as invincibly and fatally drawing Andrea to him as a snake may a bird. Not till within two steps of him did she stop, when he took her hand and she quivered all over her body.

“Do you see?” he asked.

“Yes,” was her reply, “but you have nearly been the death of me in bringing me out like this.”

“It cannot be helped,” returned Balsamo: “I am in a whirl, and am ready to die with the craze upon me.”

“You do indeed suffer,” said she, informed of his state by the contact of his hand alone.

“Yes, and I come to you for consolation. You alone can save me. Can you follow me – ”

“Yes, if you conduct me with your mind.”

“Come!”

“Ah,” said Andrea, “we are in Paris – a street lit by a single lamp – we enter a house – we go up to the wall which opens to let us pass through. We are in so strange a chamber, with no doors and the windows are barred. How greatly in disorder is everything!”

“But it is empty? where is the person who was there last?”

“Give me some object of hers that I may be in touch.”

“This is a lock of her hair.”

Andrea laid the hair on her bosom.

“Oh, I know this woman, whom I have seen before – she is fleeing into the city.”

“Yes; but what was she doing these two hours before? Trace back.”

“Wait: she is lying on a sofa with a cut in the breast. She wakes from a sleep, and seeks round her. Taking a handkerchief she ties it to the window bars. Come down, poor woman! She weeps, she is in distress, she wrings her arms – ah! she is looking for a corner of the wall on which to dash out her brains. She springs towards the chimney-place where two lion heads in marble are embossed. On one of them she would beat out her brains when she sees a spot of blood on the lion’s eye. Blood, and yet she had not struck it?”

“It is mine,” said the mesmerist.

“Yes, yours. You cut your fingers with a dagger, the dagger with which she stabbed herself and you tried to get it away from her. Your bleeding fingers pressed the lion’s head.”

“It is true: how did she get out?”

“I see her examine the blood, reflect, and then lay her finger where yours was pressed. Oh, the lion’s head gives way – it is a spring which works: the chimney-plate opens.”

“Cursed imprudence of mine,” groaned the conspirator: “unhappy madman! I have betrayed myself through love. But she has gone out and flees?”

“The poor thing must be pardoned, she is so distressed.”

“Whither goes she, Andrea? follow, follow, I will it!”

“She stops in a room where are armor and furs: a safe is open but a casket usually kept in it is now on a table: she knows it again. She takes it.”

“What is in it?”

“Your papers. It is covered with blue velvet and studded with silver, the lock and bands are of the same metal.”

“Ha! was it she took the casket?” cried Balsamo, stamping his foot.

“Yes, she. Going down the stairs to the anteroom, she opens the door, draws the chain undoing the street door and is out in the street.”

“It is late?”

“It is nighttime. Once out, she runs like a mad thing up on the main street towards the Bastile. She knocks up against passengers and questions.”

“Lose not a word – what does she say?”

“She asks a man clad in black where she can find the Chief of Police.”