“What mean you by saying here? Is not this garden set apart for the professors?”
“It is so, my father; but two or three times it appeared to me that I saw this woman glide from the courtyard into the garden, and each time I would have followed her, but the closed door always prevented me. Then one day the Abbé Bérardier, being highly satisfied with my composition, asked me if there was anything I particularly desired; and I asked him to allow me sometimes to walk in the garden with him. He gave me the permission. I came; and here, Father, the vision reappeared to me.”
Gilbert trembled.
“Strange hallucination,” said he; “but, nevertheless, very possible in a temperament so highly nervous as his. And you have seen her face, then?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Do you remember it?”
The youth smiled.
“Did you ever attempt to go near her?”
“Yes.”
“To hold out your hand to her?”
“It was then that she would disappear.”
“And in your own opinion, Sebastien, who is this woman?”
“It appears to me that she is my mother.”
“Your mother!” exclaimed Gilbert, turning pale.
And he pressed his hand against his heart, as if to stop the bleeding of a painful wound.
“But this is all a dream,” cried he; “and really I am almost as mad as you are.”
The youth remained silent, and with pensive eye looked at his father.
“Well?” said the latter, in the accent of inquiry.
“Well,” replied Sebastien, “it is possible that it may be all a dream; but the reality of my dream is no less existing.”
“What say you?”
“I say that at the last Festival of Pentecost, when we were taken to walk in the wood of Satory, near Versailles, and that while there, as I was meditating under a tree, and separated from my companions—”
“The same vision again appeared to you?”
“Yes; but this time in a carriage, drawn by four magnificent horses. But this time real, absolutely living. I very nearly fainted.”
“And why so?”
“I do not know.”
“And what impression remained upon your mind from this new vision?”
“That it was not my mother whom I had seen appearing to me in a dream, since this woman was the same I always saw in my vision, and my mother is dead.”
Gilbert rose and pressed his hand to his forehead. A strange swimming of the head had just seized him.
The young lad remarked his agitation, and was alarmed at his sudden paleness.
“Ah!” said he, “you see now, Father, how wrong I was to relate to you all my follies.”
“No, my child, no. On the contrary,” said the doctor, “speak of them often to me; speak of them to me every time you see me, and we will endeavor to cure you of them.”
Sebastien shook his head.
“Cure me! and for what?” asked he. “I am accustomed to this dream. It has become a portion of my existence. I love that vision, although it flies from me, and sometimes seems to repel me. Do not, therefore, cure me of it, Father. You may again leave me, travel once more, perhaps go again to America. Having this vision, I am not completely alone in the world.”
“In fine,” murmured the doctor, and pressing Sebastien to his breast, “till we meet again, my child,” said he, “and then I hope we shall no more leave each other; for should I again leave France, I will at least endeavor to take you with me.”
“Was my mother beautiful?” asked the child.
“Oh, yes, very beautiful!” replied the doctor, in a voice almost choked by emotion.
“And did she love you as much as I love you?”
“Sebastien! Sebastien! never speak to me of your mother!” cried the doctor.
And pressing his lips for the last time to the forehead of the youth, he rushed out of the garden.
Instead of following him, the child fell back, overcome by his feelings, on the bench.
In the courtyard Gilbert found Billot and Pitou, completely invigorated by the good cheer they had partaken of. They were relating to the Abbé Bérardier all the circumstances regarding the capture of the Bastille.