CHAPTER XV.

THE MAN WITH THE MODEL.

With no need to be spurred in his quest, Gilbert darted through the

rooms and as it would have taken too long to climb the walls, he made

for the front door, which he opened himself and bounded out on the

street.

Knowing Paris intimately, he reached the spot indicated by Andrea in her

vision without delay and his first question to a storekeeper, who had

witnessed the accident to the boy, confirmed the statement.

He proceeded straightway to the door in the alley, and knocked.

“Who knocks?” challenged a woman’s voice.

“I, the father of the wounded child whom you succored,” replied the

knocker.

“Open, Albertine,” said a man’s voice: “it is Dr. Gilbert.”

He was let into a cellar, or rather cavern, down some moldering steps,

lighted by a lamp set on the table cumbered with printed papers, books

and manuscripts as Andrea had described.

In the shadow, and on a mattress, young Gilbert lay, but held out his

arms to his father, calling him. However powerful the philosophical

command in Gilbert, paternal love overruled decorum, and he sprang to

the boy whom he pressed to his breast, with care not to hurt his bruised

chest or his cut arm. After a long, fond kiss, he turned to thank the

good Samaritan. He was standing with his feet far apart, one hand on the

table, the other on his hip, lit by the lamp of which he had removed the

shade the better to illumine the scene.

“Look, Albertine,” said he, “and with me thank the chance enabling me to

do a good turn for one of my brothers.”

The speaker was a green and sallow man, like one of those country clowns

whom Latona’s wrath pursued and who was turning to a frog. Gilbert

shuddered, thinking that he had seen this abortion before as through a

sheet of blood.

He drew nearer to Sebastian and hugged him once more. But triumphing

over his first impulse, he went back to the strange man who had so

appalled Andrea in the second-sight vision, and said:

“Receive all the thanks of a father, sir, for having preserved his son:

they are sincere and come right from his heart.”

“I have merely done my duty as prescribed by nature and recommended by

science,” replied the other. “I am a man, and as Terence says, nothing

human is foreign to me; besides, I have a tender heart, and cannot see

even an insect suffer; consequently still less my fellow man.”

“May I learn to what fervent philanthropist I have the honor to speak?”

“Do you not know your brother-physician?” said the surgeon, laughing in

what he wanted to seem benevolence though it was ghastly. “I know you,

Dr. Gilbert, the friend of the American patriots, and of Lafayette!” He

laid peculiar stress on this name. “The republican of America and

France, the honorable Utopist who has written magnificent articles on

constitutional government, which you sent to Louis XVI. from the States,

and for which he lodged you in the Bastile, the moment you touched

French soil. You wanted to save him by clearing the road to the future,

and he opened that into jail--regular royal gratitude!”

He laughed again, this time terribly and threateningly.

“If you know me it is a farther reason for me to insist on learning to

whom I am indebted.”

“Oh, it is a long while since we made acquaintance,” said the surgeon.

“Twenty years, sir, on the dreadful night of the thirtieth of May, 1770;

the night when the fireworks exploded by accident among the people in

the Paris square, and injured and killed many who came to rejoice over

the wedding of the Archduchess and our Prince Royal, but who had to

curse their names. You were but a boy whom Rousseau brought to me,

wounded and crushed almost to death, and I bled you on a board amid the

dead and the cut-off limbs. Yet that awful night is a pleasant memory to

me for I was able to save many existences by my steel knowing where to

dissever to preserve life and where to cut to spare pain.”

“You are Jean Paul Marat, then,” cried Gilbert, falling back a step

despite himself.

“Mark, Albertine, that my name makes some effect,” said Marat with a

sinister laugh.

“But I thought you were physician to Count Artois; why are you in this

cave, why lighted by this smoky lamp?”

“I was the Prince’s veterinary surgeon, you mean. But he emigrated? no

prince, no stables; no stables, no vet. Besides, I gave in my

resignation, for I would no longer serve the tyrants.”

The dwarf drew himself up to the full extent of his form.

“But, in short, why are you in this hole?”

“Because, Master Philosopher, I am a sound patriot writing to decry the

ambitious; Bailly fears me, Necker detests me, and Lafayette sets the

National Guard on to hunt me down and has put a price on my head--the

aspiring dictator! but I brave him! out of my hole, I pursue him, and

denounce the Caesar. Do you know what he has done? He has had fifteen

thousand snuffboxes made with his portrait on them, which hides some

trick. So I entreat all good citizens to smash them when found. It is

the rallying sign for the great Royalist Plot, for you cannot be

ignorant that Lafayette is conspiring with the Queen while poor Louis is

blubbering scalding tears over the blunders the Austrian is leading him

into.

“The Queen,” said Gilbert pensively.

“Yes; don’t tell me that she is not plotting: lately she gave away so

many white cockades that white ribbon went away up in the market. It is

a fact, for I had it from one of the workgirls of Bertin the dressmaker,

her Prime Minister in Fashions, who used to say: ‘I have been discussing

matters this morning with her Majesty.'”

“And how do you denounce such things?” inquired the doctor.

“In my newspaper, the one I have just started, twenty numbers having

appeared. It is ‘The Friend of the people or the Parisian Publicist,’ an

impartial political organ. To pay for the paper and the printing--look

behind you--I have sold the sheets and blankets off my bed.”

Turning, Gilbert indeed saw that Sebastian lay on the mattress

absolutely bare, but he had fallen asleep, overcome with pain and

fatigue. He went up to him to see that it was not a swoon, but reassured

by the regular breathing he, returned to this journalist, who

irresistibly inspired him with the interest we feel for a hyena, tiger

or other wild beast.

“Who help you in this gigantic work?” he inquired.

“My staff?” sneered Marat. “Ha, ha, ha! the geese fly in files: the

eagle soars alone. My helpers are these,” and he showed his head and

hands. “I write the whole paper single handed--I can show you the copy,

though it runs into sixteen pages octavo sometimes, and often I use

small type though I commenced with large. So, it is not merely a

newspaper--but a personality--it is Marat!”

“Enormous labor--how do you manage it?” asked the other doctor.

“It is the secret of nature--a compact I have made with death. I have

given ten years of my life, so that I need no rest by day and no sleep

by night. My existence is summed up in writing: I do it day and night.

Lafayette’s police coop me up in this cell, where they chain me body and

soul to my work: they have doubled my activity. It was heavy on me at

first but I am inured to it. It delights me now to see poor humanity

through this airhole, by the narrow and slanting beam. From my gloomy

den I judge mankind living, and science and politics without appeal.

With one hand I demolish the savants, with the other the politicians. I

shall upset the whole state of things, like Samson destroying the

Temple, and under the ruins perhaps crushing me, I shall bury the

throne!”

In spite of himself the hearer shuddered: in his rags and the

poverty-stricken vault this man repeated very nearly what Cagliostro had

said in his palace under his embroidered clothes.

“But when you are so popular, why do you not try for a nomination in the

National Assembly?” he asked.

“Because the day has not come for that,” replied the demagogue;

expressing his regret, he continued, “Oh, were I a tribune of the

masses, sustained by only a few thousand of determined men, I answer for

the Constitution being perfectly safe in six weeks: the political

machine should move better: no villain would dare play ticks with it:

the Nation should be free and happy: in less than a year, it should be

flourishing and redoubtable: and thus would it remain while I was

erect.”

The vain creature was transformed under Gilbert’s eyes: his eyes became

bloodshot; his yellow skin shone with sweat; the monster became great in

his hideousness as another is grand in his beauty.

“Yes, but I am not a representative,” he proceeded, resuming his train

of ideas from where he had interrupted himself: “I have not the

thousands of followers. No, but I am a journalist, and have my weapons

and ammunition, my subscribers and readers, for whom I am an oracle, a

prophet and a diviner. I have my following for whom I am a friend, and I

lead them on, trembling, from treachery to treachery, discovery to

discovery, from one dreadful thing to another. In the first number of

The Friend of the People, I denounced the upper classes saying that

there were six hundred guilty wretches in France and that number of

ropes-ends would do the job: but I made a mistake, ha, ha! The deeds of

the fifth and sixth of October opened my eyes and I see that we must

hang twenty thousand of the patricians.”

Gilbert smiled, for fury elevated to this point, seemed madness to him.

“Why, there is not enough hemp in France to do this work, and rope would

go up in price,” he said.

“That is why I am looking round for some other means,” returned Marat,

“more expeditious and novel. Do you know whom I expect this evening? one

of our brother medicos, a member of the National Assembly whom you must

know by name, Dr. Guillotin----“

“The one who moved that the Assembly, expelled from the Session Hall at

Versailles, should meet in the Tennis Court a learned man?”

“Do you know what this able citizen has discovered? a marvellous machine

which kills without pain, for death must be punishment not torture; he

has invented it and we shall try it one of these mornings.”

Gilbert started: this was the second time that this brother Invisible

reminded him of the Chief, Cagliostro; no doubt this death-machine was

the same he had spoken of.

“But you are lucky--a knock! it is he. Run and open the door,

Albertine.”

The hag, who was the wife--rather the female mate of Marat--rose from

the stool on which she was squatting, and staggered half asleep towards

the door.

Giddy with terror, Gilbert went instinctively towards Sebastian, ready

to take him in his arms and flee.

“Just think of an automatic executioner,” said Marat, enthusiastically,

“with no need of a man to set it going; which can, if the knife is

changed a couple of times, cut off three hundred heads a-day!”

“And add,” said a bland, melodious voice, behind Marat, “which can cut

off these heads without other sensation than a slight coolness around

the neck.”

“Oh, is this you, doctor?” exclaimed Marat, turning towards a dapper

little man of forty or so, whose gentle demeanor and spruce dress made a

marked contrast with his host: in his hand he carried a small box such

as children’s toys are kept in. “What are you bringing us?”

“A model of my machine, my dear Marat. But I see Dr. Gilbert here,

unless I mistake,” said the little dandy, trying to pierce the

obscurity.

“The same, sir,” said the other visitor bowing.

“Enchanted to meet you, sir; you are only too welcome, and I shall be

happy to have the opinion of so distinguished a man on my invention. I

must tell you, my dear Marat, that I have found a skillful carpenter,

named Guidon, to make my machine on the working scale. He is dear,

though, wanting five thousand five hundred francs; but no sacrifice is

too great for me to make for humanity. In two months it will be built,

and we can try it: I shall propose it to the Assembly. I hope you will

approve of it in your excellent new paper, though, in sober earnest, the

machine recommends itself, as you will see with your own eyes, Dr.

Gilbert. But a few lines in the People’s Friend will do no harm.”

“Be easy on that score; it is not a few lines but a whole number that I

shall dedicate to it.”

“You are too good, Marat; but I am not going to let you puff a pig in a

poke.”

He took out of his pocket a much smaller box, in which a sound indicated

that some little live thing or several such were fidgeting in their

prison. This noise did not escape Marat’s subtle hearing.

“What have you got there?” he asked, putting out his hand towards the

box.

“Mind,” said the doctor, drawing it back, “do not let them escape as we

could not catch them again; they are mice whose heads we are going to

nick off with the machine. What, are you going to leave us, Dr.

Gilbert?”

“Alas, yes, sir, to my great regret; but my son, wounded by being run

over by a horse just now, has been relieved by Friend Marat, to whom I

also owe my own life in an almost similar affair. I have to thank him

again. The boy needs a fresh bed, cares and repose: so that I cannot

witness your interesting experiment.”

“But you will come and see the one with the real machine, in two months,

you promise, doctor?”

“I pledge my word.”

“Doctor,” said Marat, “I need not say, keep my abode secret. If your

friend Lafayette were to discover it he would have me shot like a dog,

or hung like a thief.”

“Shooting, hanging,” exclaimed Guillotin. “But we shall put an end to

these cannibal deaths. We shall have a death, soft, easy, instantaneous,

such as old people, disgusted with their life and wishful to pass away

like sages and philosophers, will prefer to a natural one. Come and see

how it works, Marat!”

And without troubling any farther about Dr. Gilbert, the enthusiast

opened his larger box and began to set up on the table a model

apparatus which the surgeon regarded with curiosity equal to his

enthusiasm.

Gilbert profited by their being so engaged, to carry away Sebastian,

guided by Albertine who fastened up the outer door after him.

Once in the street, he felt the night wind chill the perspiration

gathered on his brow.

“Heavens,” he muttered, “what will happen to a city where the cellars

perhaps hide five hundred lovers of mankind who are occupied with such

work as we have a sample of there? one day they will perform in broad

daylight before the crowd.”

It was little distance to his house in St. Honore Street.

The cold revived Sebastian but his father would not let him walk. When

he knocked at his door, a heavy step was heard approaching.

“Is that you, Dr. Gilbert?” challenged one within.

“That is Pitou’s voice,” said the boy.

“Praise heaven, Sebastian is found,” shouted Pitou on opening the door.

“Master Billet,” he shouted still more loudly, “Sebastian is found, and

all right, I hope, doctor?”

“Without any serious hurt, anyway,” replied the other, “Come,

Sebastian.”

He carried his son up to his bed.

Pitou followed with the light; by his mud-bespattered shoes and

stockings it was plain that he had come a long journey.

Indeed, after taking the broken-hearted Catherine home and learning from

her lips that her deep sorrow came from Isidore Charny being called away

to Paris, he took leave of her and Mother Billet, weeping by her

bedside, and went home to Haramont. He walked so slowly that he did not

get there until daybreak.

He fell off to sleep so that it was not till he awoke, that he found the

youth’s letter. Immediately he started to overtake him.

He girded up with a leather strap, took some bread and with a walking

stick in his fist, proceeded to town, where he arrived at eight that

night.

He found neither the doctor nor his son at home--only Farmer Billet.

This hearty, robust man, unnerved by the bloody scenes witnessed since

the Taking of the Bastile, of which enterprise he was the leader, had no

news for Pitou.

Their sad waiting was rewarded by the double arrival.

Though tranquil about Sebastian, Pitou, when sent to bed had his budget

to unfold to the farmer. Let no reader think that he revealed

Catherine’s secrets and spoke of her amour with the young noble. The

honest soul of the Commander of the Haramont National Guard would not

stoop to that story. But he told Billet that the harvest was bad, the

barley a failure, part of the wheat wind-laid, and the barns but a third

full--and that he had found Catherine on the road.

Billet was little vexed about the grain, but the illness of his daughter

distressed him.

He ran to Dr. Gilbert with a sad face as the latter was finishing this

note to Andrea: “Be of good heart; the child is found, with no one

hurt.”

“Dr. Gilbert, you were right to retain me in town where I might be

useful; but everything has been going wrong in the country while the

good man is away.”

Gilbert agreed with his friend that a hearty buxom girl like Catherine

should not faint on the public road. Feeling with a parent, he

responded:

“Go home, my dear Billet, since land and family call you. But do not

forget that I shall claim you in the name of the country.”

Thus Billet returned home after an absence of three months, although he

had intended to be away only a week.

Pitou followed him, bearing twenty-five louis destined from Gilbert for

the equipment and maintenance of the Haramont National Guard.

Sebastian stayed with his father.