The Mesmerist's Victim

Without letting go the pulse of the fainted woman, the doctor turned round to the captain.

“I have said what it was my duty to say,” he replied: “and it is not your sword, in or out of the sheath, which will belie me. I deeply sorrow for you, young gentleman, for you have inspired as much sympathy as this girl has aversion by her perseverance in falsehood.”

Andrea made not a movement but Philip started.

“I am father of a family,” went on the doctor, “and I understand what you must suffer. I promise you my services as I do my discretion. My word is sacred, and everybody will tell you that I hold it dearer than my life.”

“This is impossible!”

“It is true. Adieu, Captain.”

When he was gone, Philip shut all the doors and windows, and coming back to his sister who watched with stupor these ominous preparations, he said, folding his arms:

“You have cowardly and stupidly deceived me. Cowardly, because I loved you above all else, and esteemed you, and my trust ought to have induced your own though you had no affection. Stupidly, because a third person holds the infamous secret which defames us; because spite of your cunning, it must have appeared to all eyes; lastly, because if you had confessed the state to me, I might have saved you from my affection for you. Your honor, so long as you were not wedded, belongs to all of us – that is, you have shamed us all.

“Now, I am no longer your brother since you have blotted out the title: only a man interested in extorting from you by all possible means the whole secret in order that I may obtain some reparation. I come to you full of anger and resolution, and I say that you shall be punished as cowards deserve for having been such a coward as to shelter yourself behind a lie. Confess your crime, or – ”

“Threats, to me?” cried the proud Andrea, “to a woman?” And she rose pale and menacing likewise.

“Not to a woman but to a faithless, dishonored creature.”

“Threats,” continued Andrea, more and more exasperated, “to one who knows nothing, can understand nothing of this except that you are looked upon by me as sanguinary madmen leagued to kill me with grief if not with shame.”

“Aye, you shall be killed if you do not confess,” said Philip. “Die on the instant, for heaven hath doomed you and I strike at its bidding.”

The convulsively young man convulsively picked up his sword, and applied the point like lightning to his sister’s breast.

“Yes, kill me!” she screamed, without shrinking at the smart of the wound.

She was even springing forward, full of sorrow and dementia, and her leap was so quick that the sword would have run through her bosom but for the sudden terror of Philip and the sight of a few drops of red on her muslin at the neck making him draw back.

At the end of his strength and his anger, he dropped the blade and fell on his knees at her feet. He wound his arms round her.

“No, Andrea,” he cried, “it is I who shall die. You love me no more and I care for nothing in the world. Oh, you love another to such a degree that you prefer death to a confession poured out on my bosom. Oh, Andrea, it is time that I was dead.”

She seized him as he would have dashed away, and wildly embraced him and covered him with tears and kisses.

“No, Philip, you are right. I ought to die since I am called guilty. But you are so good, pure and noble, that nobody will ever defame you and you should live to sorrow for me, not curse me.”

“Well, sister,” replied the young man, “in heaven’s name, for the sake of our old time’s love, fear nothing for yourself or him you love. I require no more of you, not even his name. Enough that the man pleased you, and so he is dear to me.

“Let us quit France. I hear that the King gave you some jewels – let us sell them and get away together. We will send half to our father and hide with the other. I will be all to you and you all to me. I love no one, so that I can be devoted to you. Andrea, you see what I do for you; you see you may rely on my love. Come, do you still refuse me your trust? will you not call me your brother?”

In silence, Andrea had listened to all the desperate young man had said: only the throbbing of her heart indicated life; only her looks showed reason.

“Philip,” she said after a long pause, “you have thought that I loved you no longer, poor brother! and loved another man? now I forgive you all but the belief that I am impious enough to take a false oath. Well, I swear by high heaven which hears me, by our mother’s soul – it seems that she has not long enough defended me, alas! that a thought of love has never distracted my reason. Now, God hath my soul in His holy keeping, and my body is at your disposal.”

“Then there is witchcraft here,” cried Philip; “I have heard of philters and potions. Someone has laid a hellish snare for you. Awake, none could have won this prize – sleeping, they have despoiled you. But we are together now and you are strong with me. You confide your honor in me and I shall revenge you.”

“Yes, revenge, for it would be for a crime!” said the girl, with a sombre glow in her eyes.

“Well let us search out the criminal together,” continued the Knight of Redcastle. “Have you noticed any one spying you and following you about – have you had letters – has a man said he loved you or led you to suppose so – for women have a remarkable instinct in such matters?”

“No one, nothing.”

“Have you never walked out alone?”

“I always had Nicole with me.”

“Nicole? a girl of dubious morals. Have I known all about her escapade?”

“Only that she is supposed to have run away with her sweetheart.”

“How did you part?”

“Naturally enough; she attended to her duties up to nine o’clock when she arranged my things, set out my drink for the night and went away.”

“Your drink? may she not have mixed something with it?”

“No; for I remember that I felt that strange thrill as I was putting the glass to my lips.”

“What strange thrill?”

“The same I felt down at our place when that foreign lord Baron Balsamo came to our home. Something like vertigo, a dazing, a loss of all the faculties. I was at my piano when I felt all spin and swim around me. Looking before me I saw the baron reflected in a mirror. I remember no more except that I found myself waking in the same spot without ability to reckon how long I had been unconscious.”

“Is this the only time you experienced this feeling?”

“Again on the night of the accident with the fireworks. I was dragged along with the crowd when suddenly, on the point of being mangled, a cloud came over my eyes and my rigid arms were extended: through the cloud I just had time to catch a glimpse of that man. I fell off into a sleep or swoon then. You know that Baron Balsamo carried me away and brought me home.”

“Yes; and did you see him again on the night when Nicole fled?”

“No; but I felt all the symptoms which betoken his presence. I went into sleep; when I woke, I was not on the bed but on the floor, alone, cold as in death. I called for Nicole but she had disappeared.”

“Twice then you saw this Baron Joseph Balsamo in connection with this strange sleep: and the third time – ”

“I divined that he was near,” said Andrea, who began to understand his inference.

“It is well,” said Philip. “Now you may rest tranquil and abate not your pride, Andrea: I know the secret. Thank you, dear sister, we are saved!”

He took her in his arms, pressed her affectionately to his heart, and, borne away by the fire of his determination, dashed out of the rooms without awaiting or listening for anything.

He ran to the stables, saddled and bridled his steed with his own hands, and rode off at the top of speed to Paris.

CHAPTER XXXVI

TWO SORROWS

PHILIP was ignorant of Balsamo’s address but he remembered that of the lady who he said had harbored Andrea. The Marchioness of Savigny’s maid supplied him with the directions, and it was not without profound emotion that he stood before the house in St. Claude Street, where he conjectured Andrea’s repose and honor were entombed.