“Say what you will, sir,” rejoined the Countess, “but I can say nothing; I do not know you.”
“And you know nothing of this casket either?”
The countess convulsively closed her hands and bit her pale lips till they bled.
“No,” said she, “I know no more of it than I do of you.”
But the effort she made to pronounce these words was such, that her body trembled as does a statue on its pedestal during an earthquake.
“Madame, beware,” said Gilbert. “I am, as you can hardly have forgotten, the pupil of a man called Joseph Balsamo. The power which he possessed over you, he has transmitted to me. For the last time, will you answer the question I put to you: My casket?”
“No,” cried the countess, a prey to the most indescribable agitation, and making a movement to rush out of the room; “no, no, no!”
“Well, then,” said Gilbert, in his turn becoming pale, and raising his threatening arm; “well then! thou iron nature, thou heart of adamant, bend, burst, and break beneath the irresistible pressure of my will. Wilt thou not speak, Andrée?”
“No, no,” cried the countess; “help me Sire, help me!”
“Thou shalt speak,” cried Gilbert; “and no one, were he the King, or even God himself, can withdraw thee from my power. Thou shalt speak, then; thou shalt reveal thy whole soul to the witness of this solemn scene; and all that is contained in the recesses of thy conscience,—all that which God alone can read in the depths of the deepest souls, you shall know, Sire, from the lips of her who refuses to reveal them. Sleep, Countess de Charny, sleep and speak. I will it!”
Hardly were the words pronounced, when the Countess stopped short in the midst of a suppressed cry, stretched forth her arms, and seeking support for her trembling limbs, fell, as if imploring a refuge, into the arms of the king, who, trembling himself, seated her upon an arm-chair.
“Oh!” said Louis XVI., “I have heard of things of this nature, but I never before witnessed anything to equal it. Is it not to a magnetic sleep that she has just succumbed, sir?”
“Yes, Sire; take the hand of the countess, and ask her why she caused me to be arrested,” said Gilbert, as if the right to command belonged to him alone.
Louis XVI., quite thunderstruck by this marvellous scene, took two steps backwards to convince himself that he was not himself asleep, and that what was taking place before him was not a dream; then, like a mathematician who is interested in some new solution, he approached nearer to the countess, whose hand he took in his.
“Let us see, Countess,” said he; “it was then you who caused the arrest of Doctor Gilbert?”
Still, although asleep, the countess made one last effort, snatched her hand from that of the king, and gathering up all her strength:—
“No,” cried she, “I will not speak.”
The king looked at Gilbert, as if to ask him which of the two would overcome the other,—his will or that of Andrée.
Gilbert smiled.
“You will not speak?” said he.
And, his eyes fixed upon the sleeping Andrée, he advanced a step towards the arm-chair.
Andrée shuddered.
“Will you not speak?” added he, taking a second step, which diminished the distance that separated him from the countess.
Every muscle of Andrée’s frame became rigid in a supreme effort of resistance.
“Ah, you will not, speak, then” said he, taking a third stride, which placed him at the side of Andrée, over whose head he placed his outstretched hand; “ah, you will not speak?”
Andrée was writhing in the most fearful convulsions.
“But take care! take care!” cried Louis XVI., “you will kill her!”
“Fear nothing, Sire; it is with the soul alone that I have to contend; the soul is struggling, but it will yield.”
Then, lowering his hand:—
“Speak!” said he.
Andrée extended her arms, and made an effort to breathe, as if she had been under the pressure of a pneumatic machine.
“Speak!” repeated Gilbert, lowering his hand still more.
All the muscles of the young woman’s body seemed about to burst. A fringe of froth appeared upon her lips, and a commencement of epilepsy convulsed her from head to foot.