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Marie Antoinette Romances, Vol 2: The Mesmerist's Victim

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<h2>CHAPTER XLI. THE KIDNAPPING.</h2> THE day of pain and grief had come. It was the 29th of November. Dr. Louis was in attendance and Philip was ever on guard. She had come to the point, had Andrea, as if to the scaffold. She believed that she would be a bad mother to the offspring of the lowborn lover whom she hated more than ever. At three o’clock in the morning, the doctor opened the door behind which the young gentleman was weeping and praying. “Your sister has given birth to a son,” he said. Philip clasped his hands. “You must not go near her, for she sleeps. If she did not, I should have said: ‘A son is born and the mother is dead.’ Now, you know that we have engaged a nurse. I told her to be ready as I came along by the Pointe-de-Jour, but you shall go for her as she must see nobody else. Profit by the patient’s sleep and take my carriage. I have a patient to attend to on Royale Place where I must finish the night. To-morrow at eight, I will come.” “Good-night!” The doctor directed the servant what to do for the mother and child which was placed near her, though Philip, remembering his sister’s aversion thought they ought to be parted. The gentlemen gone, the waiting woman dozed in a chair near her mistress. Suddenly the latter was awakened by the cry of the child. She opened her eyes and saw the sleeping servant. She admired the peace of the room and the glow of the fire. The cry struck her as a pain at first, and then as an annoyance. The child not being near her, she thought it was a piece of Philip’s foresight in executing her rather cruel will. The thought of the evil we wish to do never affects us like the sight of it done. Andrea who execrated the ideal babe and even wished its death, was hurt to hear it wail. “It is in pain,” she thought. “But why should I interest myself in its sufferings—I, the most unfortunate of living creatures?” The babe uttered a sharper and more painful cry. Then the mother seemed to know that a new voice spoke within her, and she felt her heart drawn towards the abandoned little one who lamented. What had been foreseen by the doctor came to pass. Nature had accomplished one of her preparations: physical pain, that powerful bond, had soldered the heartstrings of the mother to the progeny. “This little one must not appeal to heaven for vengeance,” thought Andrea. “To kill them may exempt them from suffering, but they must not be tortured. If we had any right, heaven would not let them protest so touchingly.” She called the servant but that robust peasant slept too soundly for her weak voice. However, the babe cried no more. “I suppose,” mused Andrea, “that the nurse has come. Yes I hear steps in the next room, and the little mite cries not—as if protection was extended over it, and soothed its unshaped intelligence. So, this then is a poor mother who sells her place for a few crowns. The child of my bosom will find this other mother, and when I pass by it will turn from me as a stranger and call on the hireling as more worthy of its love. It will be my just reward! No, this shall not be. I have undergone enough to entitle me to look mine own in the face: I have earned the right to love it with all my cares and make it respect me for my sorrow and my sacrifice.” Slowly the servant was aroused by her renewed cries and went heavily into the next room for the removed child or to welcome the wetnurse; but the latter had not arrived and she returned to say that the babe was not to be seen. “Bring it to me, and shut that door.” Indeed, the wind was pouring in somewhere and making the candle flicker. “Mistress,” said the servant softly, “Master Philip told me plainly to keep the child apart from you from fear it would disturb you—— ” “Bring me my child,” said the young mother with an outbreak which nearly burst her heart. Out of her eyes, which had remained dry despite her pangs, gushed tears on which must have smiled the guardian angels of little children. “Mistress,” replied the servant, returning. “I tell you that the child is not there. Somebody must have come in—— ” “Yes, I heard it; the nurse has come and—where is my brother?” “Here he is, mistress; with the nurse.” Captain Philip returned, followed by a peasant woman in a striped shawl who wore the smirk customary in the mercenary to her employer. “My good brother,” said Andrea: “I have to thank you for having so earnestly pleaded with me to see the baby once more before you took it away. Well, let me have it. Rest easy, I shall love it.” “What do you mean?” asked Philip. “Please, your honor, the babe is neither here nor there.” “Hush, let us save the mother,” whispered Philip: then aloud: “What a bother about nothing! do you not know that the doctor took the child away with him?” “The doctor?” repeated Andrea, with the suffering of doubt but also the joy of hope. “Why, yes: you must be all lunatics here. Why, what do you think—that the young rogue walked off himself?” and he affected a merry laugh which the nurse and servant caught up. “But if the doctor took it away, why am I here?” objected the nurse. “Just so, because—why, he took it to your house. Run along back. This Marguerite sleeps so soundly she did not hear the doctor coming for it and taking it away.” Andrea fell back, calm after the terrible shock. Philip dismissed the nurse and sent home the servant. Taking a lantern he examined the next passage door which he found ajar, and on the snow of the garden he saw footprints of a man which went to the garden door. “A man’s steps,” he cried, “the child has been stolen. Woe, woe!” He passed a dreadful night. He knew his father so thoroughly that he believed he had committed the abduction, thinking the child was of royal origin. He might well attach great importance to the living proof of the King’s infidelity to Lady Dubarry. The baron would believe that Andrea would sooner or later enter again into favor, and be the principal means of his fortune. When he saw the doctor he imparted to him this idea, in which he did not share. He was rather inclined to the opinion that in this deed was the hand of the true father. “However,” said the young gentleman, “I mean to leave the country. Andrea is going into St. Denis Nunnery, and then I shall go and have it out with my father. I will overcome his resistance by threatening the intervention of the Dauphiness or a public exposure.” “And the child recovered, as the mother will be in the convent?” “I will put it out to nurse and afterwards send it to college. If it grows up it shall be my companion.” But the baron, who was regaining strength after a fit of fever was ready to swear that he was innocent of abduction, and the captain had to return baffled. The same fate awaited him in another quarter, the least expected. Andrea avowed her resolution to live for her son and not to be immured in a convent. Philip and the doctor joined in a pious lie. They asserted that the child was dead, that the cries she heard on the night of its disappearance were its last. They were congratulating themselves on the success of their fiction when a letter came by the post. It was addressed to: “Mdlle. Andrea de Taverney, Paris; Coq-Heron Street, the first coachhouse door from Plastriere Street.” “Who can write to her?” wondered Philip. “Nobody but our father knew our address and it is not his hand.” Thoughtlessly he gave it to his sister, who took it as coolly. Without reflecting, or feeling astonishment, she broke open the envelope, but had scarcely read the few lines before she gave a loud scream, rose like a mad woman, and fell with her arms stiffening, as heavily as a statue, into the arms of the servant who ran up. Philip picked up the letter and read: <div class="blockquot"> At Sea., 15th Dec., 17—. “Driven by you, I go, and you will never see me again. But I bear with me my child, who will never call you mother. “GILBERT.” </div> “Oh,” said Philip, crushing up the paper in his wrath, “I had almost pardoned the crime by chance; but this deliberate one must be punished. By thy insensible, head, Andrea, I swear to kill the villain at sight. Doctor, see the poor girl into the Convent while I pursue this scoundrel. Besides, I must have this child. I will be at Havre in thirty-six hours.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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