Scarcely had Jean, to whom everybody rushed at the door for news, said he wanted flowers for his master, than all the windows opened, and flowers were offered from conservatories and gardens of the rarest sorts. By nine in the morning the room was transformed into a bower of bloom.
"My dear doctor, I beg a quarter of an hour to say good-bye to a person who ought to quit the house before I go. I ask you to protect her in case they hoot her."
"I leave you alone," said Gilbert, understanding.
"Before going, kindly hand me the little casket in the secretary."
Gilbert did as requested; the money-box was heavy enough to be full of gold.
At the end of half an hour, spent by Gilbert in giving news to the inquirers, Jean ushered a veiled lady out to a hackney-carriage at the door.
Gilbert ran to his patient.
"Put the casket back," said he in a faint voice. "Odd, is it not?" he continued, seeing how astonished the doctor looked at its being as heavy as before, "but where the deuce will disinterestedness next have a nest?"
Near the bed, Gilbert picked up a lace handkerchief wet with tears.
"Ah, she would take nothing away – but she left something," remarked Mirabeau.
Feeling it was damp he pressed it to his forehead.
"Tears? is she the only one who has a heart?" he murmured.
He fell back on the bed, with closed eyes; he might have been believed dead or swooning but for the death-rattle in his breast.
How came it that this man of athletic, herculean build should die?
Was it not because he had held out his hand to stay the tumbling throne from toppling over? Was it not because he had offered his arm to that woman of misfortune known as Marie Antoinette?
Had not Cagliostro predicted some such fate to Gilbert for Mirabeau? and the two strange creatures – one, Beausire, blasting the reputation, the other, Nicole, blasting the health of the great orator who had become the supporter of the monarchy – were they not for him, Gilbert, a proof that all things which were obstacles to this man – or rather the idea he stood for – must go down before him as the Bastile had done?
Nevertheless he was going to try upon him the elixir of life which he owed to Cagliostro; it was irony to save his victim with his own remedy.
The patient had opened his eyes.
"Nay," said he, "a few drops will be vain. You must give me the whole phial. I had the stuff analyzed and found it was Indian hemp; I had some compounded for myself and I have been taking it copiously not to live but to dream."
"Unhappy man that I am," sighed Gilbert; "he has led to my dealing out poison to my friend."
"A sweet poison, by which I have lengthened out the last moments of my life a hundredfold. In my dream I have enjoyed what has really escaped me, riches, power, and love. I do not know whether I ought to thank God for my life, but I thank you, doctor, for your drug. Fill up the glass and let me have it."
Gilbert presented the extract which the patient absorbed with gusto.
"Ah, doctor," he said after a short pause, as if the veil of the future were raised at the approach of eternity; "blessed are those who die in this year, 1791! for they will have seen the sunny side of the Revolution. Never has a great one cost so little bloodshed up to now, because it is the mind that was conquered: but on the morrow the war will be upon facts and in things. Perhaps you believe that the tenants of the Tuileries will mourn for me? not at all. My death rids them of an engagement. With me, they had to rule in a certain way: I was less support than hindrance. She excused herself for leaning on me, to her brother: 'Mirabeau believes that he is advising me – I am only amusing myself with him.' That is why I wished that woman, her likeness, to be my mistress, and not my Queen.
"What a fine part he shall play in History who undertook to sustain the young nation with one hand and the old monarchy in the other, forcing them to tread the same goal – the happiness of the governed and the respect of the governors. It might have been possible and might be but a dream; but I am convinced that I alone could have realized the dream. My sorrow is not in dying, but in dying with work unfinished. Who will glorify my idea left mangled, an abortion? What will be known of me will be the part that should be buried in oblivion – my wild, reckless, rakish life and my obscene writings.
"I shall be blamed for having made a bond with the court out of which comes gain for no man; I shall be judged, dying at forty-two, like one who lived man's full age. They will take me to task as if instead of trying to walk on the waters in a storm, I had trodden a broad way paved with laws, statutes, and regulations. To whom shall I league my memory to be cleansed and be an honor to my country?
"But I could do nothing without her, and she would not take my helping hand. I pledged myself like a fool, while she remained unfettered. But it is so – all is for the best; and if you will promise one thing, no regret will trouble my last breath."
"Good God, what would I not promise?"
"If my passing from life is tedious, make it easy? I ask the aid not only of the doctor but of the man and the philosopher – promise to aid me. I do not wish to die dead, – but living, and the last step will not be hard to take."
The doctor bent his head towards the speaker.
"I promised not to leave you, my friend; if heaven hath condemned you – though I hope we have not come to that point – leave to my affection at the supreme instant the care of accomplishing what I ought to do. If death comes, I shall be at hand also."
"Thanks," said the dying one as if this were all he awaited.
The abundant dose of cannabis indicus had restored speech to the doomed one: but this vitality of the mind vanished and for three hours the cold hand remained in the doctor's without a throb. Suddenly he felt a start: the awakening had come.
"It will be a dreadful struggle," he thought.
Such was the agony in which the strong frame wrestled that Gilbert forgot that he had promised to second death, not to oppose it. But, reminded of his pledge, he seized the pen to write a prescription for an opiate. Scarcely had he written the last words than Mirabeau rose on the pillow and asked for the pen. With his hand clenched by death he scrawled:
"Flee, flee, flee!"
He tried to sign but could only trace four letters of his name.
"For her," he gasped, holding out his convulsed arm towards his companion.
He fell back without breath, movement or look – he was dead.
Gilbert turned to the spectators of this scene and said:
"Mirabeau is no more."
Taking the paper whose destination he alone might divine, he rapidly departed from the death chamber.
Some seconds after the doctor's going, a great clamor arose in the street and was prolonged throughout Paris.
The grief was intense and wide. The Assembly voted a public funeral, and the Pantheon, formerly Church of St. Genevieve, was selected for the great man's resting-place. Three years subsequently the Convention sent the coffin to the Clamart Cemetery to be bundled among the corpses of the publicly executed.
Petion claimed to have discovered a contra-revolutionary plot written in the hand of Mirabeau, and Congress reversed its previous judgment and declared that genius could not condone corruption.
CHAPTER VII.
THE KING'S MESSENGER
On the morning of the second of April, an hour before Mirabeau yielded up his last breath, a superior officer of the navy, wearing his full dress uniform of captain, entered the Tuileries Palace like one to whom the ways were familiar.
He took the private stairs to the King's apartments, where, by the study,