The Hero of the People: A Historical Romance of Love, Liberty and Loyalty
bleed him. Oh, I cannot bear to see my son’s blood flow. Run, run, and
you will find him as I say.”
“Shall I awaken you at once with recollection: or would you sleep till
the morning and know nothing of what has happened?”
“Awaken me at once with full memory.”
Gilbert described a double curve with his hands so that his thumbs came
upon the medium’s eyelids; he breathed on her forehead and said merely:
“Awake!”
Instantly her eyes became animated; her limbs were supple; she looked at
Gilbert almost without terror, and continuing, though aroused, the
impulse in her vision, she cried:
“Oh, run, run, and snatch the boy from the hands of that man who causes
me so much fright!”
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