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Marie Antoinette Romances, Vol 1: Balsamo, The Magician

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<h2>CHAPTER XXIX. WHO MASTER JACQUES WAS.</h2> While the novice was covering the paper with his first attempts, the old gentleman set to reading printer's proofs—long leaves blank on one side like the paper of which was made the bean bags. At nine Therese rushed in. "Quick, quick!" she cried to Jacques, who raised his head. "Come out. It is a prince who calls. Goodness me! when will this procession of high-cockalorums cease? I hope this one will not take it into his head to have breakfast with us, like the Duke of Chartres the other day." "Which prince is this one?" asked Jacques in an undertone. "His Highness the Prince of Conti." Gilbert let a blob of ink fall on the paper much more resembling a blot than a full note. Jacques went out, smiling behind Therese, who shut the door after them. "Princes here!" thought Gilbert. "Dukes calling on a copier of music!" With his heart singularly beating, he went up to the door to listen. "I want to take you with me," said a strange voice. "For what purpose, prince?" inquired Jacques. "To present you to the dauphiness. A new era opens for philosophers in her coming reign." "I am a thousand times thankful to your highness; but my infirmities keep me indoors." "And your misanthropy?" "Suppose it were that? Is it so curious a thing that I should put myself out for it?" "Come, and I will spare you the grand reception at the celebration at St. Denis, and take you on to Muette, where her royal highness will pass the night in a couple of days." "Does she get to St. Denis the day after to-morrow?" "With her whole retinue. Come! the princess is a pupil of Gluck and an excellent musician." Gilbert did not listen to any more after hearing that the dauphiness' retinue would be at St. Denis, only a few miles out, in a day or two. He might soon be within view of Andrea. This idea dazzled him like a flash from a looking-glass in his face. When he opened his eyes after this giddiness they fell on a book which happened to be open on the sideboard; it was Rousseau's Confessions, "adorned with a portrait of the author." "The very thing I was looking for. I had never seen what he was like." He quickly turned over the tissue paper on the steel plate and as he looked, the door opened and the living original of the portrait returned. With extended hands, dropping the volume, and trembling all over, he muttered: "Oh! I am under the roof of Jean Jacques Rousseau!" The old gentleman smiled with more happiness at this unstudied ovation than at the thousand triumphs of his glorious life. "Yes, my friend, you are in Rousseau's house." "Pray forgive me for the nonsense I have talked," said the hero-worshiper, clasping his hands and about to fall on his knees. "Did it require a prince's call for you to recognize the persecuted philosopher of Geneva? poor child—but lucky one—who is ignorant of persecution." "Oh, I am happy to see you, to know you, to dwell by you." "Yes, yes, that is all very well; but we must earn our living. When you shall have copied this piece—for you have practiced enough to make a start—you will have earned your keep to-day. I charge nothing for the lodging—only do not sit up late and burn up the candles, for Therese will scold. What was left over from supper last night will be our breakfast; but this will be the last meal we take together, unless I invite you. In the street is a cheap dining-house for artisans, where you will fare nicely. I recommend it. In the mean time, let us breakfast." Gilbert followed without a word, for he was conquered, for the first time; but then this was a man superior to others. After the first mouthfuls he left table; the shock had spoilt his appetite. At eight in the evening he had copied a piece of music, not artistically but legibly, and Rousseau paid him the six cents. "We have plenty of bread," remarked Therese, on whom the young man's gentleness, application and discretion had produced good effect. "I shall never forget your kindness, madame," he said, about to excuse himself, when he caught the host's eye and guessed that it would offend him. "I accept," he said. He went up to his loft, with the bread and money. "At last I am my own master," he said to himself, "or should be but for this bread, which is from charity." Although hungry, he placed it on the window sill and did not touch it during the night, though famine made him remember it. He woke up at daylight, but still he did not eat the bread. He took it up, though, and at five o'clock, went down and outdoors. From suspicion, or merely to study his guest, Rousseau was on the lookout, and he followed the youth up the street. A beggar coming up to Gilbert, he gave him the hunk of bread. Entering the baker's, he bought another roll. "He is going into the eating-house," thought the watcher, "where the money will soon fly." But Gilbert munched part of the roll while strolling; he washed down the rest at the public fountain, washed his hands and sauntered home. "By my faith, I believe that I am happier than Diogenes and have found an honest man," thought Rousseau. The day passed in uninterrupted labor. At even Gilbert had turned out seven pages of copy—if not elegant, faultless. He tested in his hand the money received for it with ardent satisfaction. "You are my master," he said, "since I find work in your place and you give me lodgings gratis. I should therefore lay myself open to be badly thought of by you if I acted without consulting you." "What," said Rousseau, frightened; "what are you going to do? Going off elsewhere to work?" "No, only I want a holiday, with your leave, to-morrow." "To idle?" "No, to go to St. Denis to see the dauphiness arrive." "I thought you scorned the pomps of this worldly show," said Rousseau. "I, though an obscure citizen, despised the invitation of these great people to be of the reception party." Gilbert nodded approval. "I am not philosophic," said he, "but I am discreet." This word struck the tutor, who saw there was some mystery in this behavior, and he looked at the speaker with admiration. "I am glad to see you have a motive." "Yes, and one which does not resemble the curiosity of a man at a show." "It is for the better, or for the worse, for your look is deep, young man, and I seek in it in vain for youthful calm and candor." "I told you I was unfortunate," returned Gilbert; "and such have no youth." "But at the hour when you are seeing all the pomps of society glitter before you, I shall open one of my herbariums and review the magnificence of nature." "But would you not have turned your back on herbariums if you were going to see your sweetheart—the one to whom you tossed a bunch of cherries?" "Quite true! And you are young. Go to the show, my boy. It is not ambition in him, but love," he commented when Gilbert had gone out gleefully. <hr style="width:65%;"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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