The Mesmerist's Victim

“Oh, dear, she is white as her handkerchief,” said the Archduchess; “it is my fault for scolding her. Poor girl, take a seat! Do you think you could go on with your reading?”

“Certainly; I hope so, at least.”

But hardly had she cast her eyes on the page before black specks began to swarm and float before her sight and they made the print indecipherable.

She turned pale anew; cold perspiration beaded her brow; and the dark ring round her eyes with which Taverney had blamed his daughter enlarged so that the princesses exclaimed, as Andrea’s faltering made her raise her head.

“Again? look, duchess, the poor child must be ill, for she is losing her senses.”

“The young lady must get home as soon as possible,” said the Mistress of the Household drily. “Thus commences the small pox.”

The priest rose and stole away on tiptoe, not wanting to risk his beauty.

“Yes,” said the Dauphiness, in whose arms the girl came to, “you had better retire, but do not go indoors at once. A stroll in the garden may do you good. Oh, send me back my abbe, who is yonder among the tulips.”

Andrea was glad to be out doors, but she felt little improved. To reach the priest she had to make a circuit. She walked with lowered head, heavy with the weight of the strange dulness with which she had suffered since rising. She paid no attention to the birds hunting each other among the blooming hedges or to the bees humming amid the thyme and lilacs. She did not remark, only a few paces off, Dr. Jussieu giving a lesson in gardening to Gilbert. Since the pupil perceived the promenader, he made but a poor auditor.

“Oh, heavens!” interrupted he, suddenly extending his arms.

“What is the matter?” asked the lecturer.

“She has fainted!”

“Who? are you mad?”

“A lady,” answered Gilbert, quickly.

His pallor and his alarm would have betrayed him as badly as his cry of “She” but Jussieu had looked off in the other direction.

He saw Andrea fallen on a garden seat, ready to give up the last sensible breath.

It was the time when the King had the habit of paying the Dauphin a visit and came through this way. He suddenly appeared, holding a hothouse peach, with a true selfish king’s wonder, thinking whether it would not be better for the welfare of France that he should enjoy it rather than the princess.

“What is the matter?” he cried as he saw the two men racing towards the swooning girl whom he vaguely distinguished but did not recognize, thanks to his weak sight.

“The King!” exclaimed Jussieu, holding Andrea in his arms.

“The King!” murmured she, swooning away in earnest this time.

Approaching, the King knew her at last and exclaimed with a shudder:

“Again? this is an unheard-of thing! when people have such maladies, they ought to shut themselves up! it is not proper to go dying all over the house and grounds at all hours of the day and night.”

And on he went, grumbling all sorts of disagreeable things against poor Andrea. Jussieu did not understand the allusion, but seeing Gilbert in fear and anxiety, he said:

“Come along, Gilbert; you are stronger; carry Mdlle. de Taverney to her lodgings.”

“I?” protested Gilbert, quivering; “She would never forgive me for touching her. No, never!”

And off he ran, calling for help.

When the gardeners and some servants came up, they transported the girl to her rooms where they left her in the hands of her father.

But from another point arrived the Dauphiness, who had heard of the disaster from the King, and who not only came but brought her physician.

Dr. Louis was a young man, but he was intelligent.

“Your highness,” he reported to his patroness, “the young lady’s malady is quite natural and not usually dangerous.”

“And do you not prescribe anything?”

“There is absolutely nothing to be done.”

“Very well; she is luckier than I, for I shall die unless you send me the sleeping pills you promised.”

“I will prepare them myself when I get home.”

When he was gone the princess remained by her reader.

“Cheer up, my dear Andrea,” she said with a kindly smile. “There is nothing serious in your case for the doctor will not prescribe anything whatever.”

“I am glad to hear it, but he is a little wrong, for I do not feel at all well, I declare to you.”

“Still the ail cannot be severe at which a doctor laughs. Have a good sleep, my child; I will send somebody to attend you for I notice that you are quite alone. Will you accompany me, my Lord of Taverney?”

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE AVENGER

FOR a month Gilbert wandered round the sick girl’s lodgings, inventing work in the gardens in their neighborhood so that he could keep his eye constantly on the windows.

In this time he had grown paler; on his face youth was no more to be viewed than in the strange fire in his eyes and the dead-white and even complexion; his mouth curled by dissimulation, his sidelong glance, and the sensitive quivering of his muscles belonged already to later years.

Looking up, billhook in hand as a horseman struck sparks from the ride by the walk, he recognized Philip Taverney.

He moved towards the hedgerow. But the cavalier urged his horse towards him, calling out:

“Hey, Gilbert!”

The young man’s first impulse was for flight, for panic seized him and he felt like racing over the garden and the ponds themselves.

“Do you not know me, Gilbert?” shouted the captain in a gentle tone which was understood by the incorrigible youth.

Comprehending his folly, Gilbert stopped. He retraced his steps but slowly and with distrust.

“Not at first, my lord,” he said trembling: “I took you for one of the guards, and as I was idling, I feared to be brought to task and booked for punishment.”

Content with this explanation, Philip dismounted, put the bridle round his arm and leaning the other hand on Gilbert’s shoulder which visibly made him shudder, he went on: