More than one hour elapsed after this letter was written before Philip again appeared. When he did so, however, he seemed in some haste. “Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “my son is here. They have let me take him into my cell to rest, but I dare not be absent more than a moment, for fear they suspect something. Is the letter ready?”
De Blenau placed it in his hand, and would fain have added some gold. “The Queen is at Chantilly,” said he, “and your son will want money for his journey.”
“No, no, Sir,” replied Philip, “that is no stuff for a child. Let him have a broad-piece, if you like, to help him on, but no more.”
“Well then,” said the Count, “accept the rest for your services. I have more in that valise.”
“Not so, either, Monseigneur,” answered the Woodman. “Pay for what is done, when it is done;” and taking the letter and one gold piece, he left the apartment.
CHAPTER VIII.
Which shows that Accident holds Wisdom by the leg, and like a pig-driver with a pig, often makes her go forward by pulling her back.
THE heavy carriage which conveyed Pauline de Beaumont towards Paris rolled on with no great rapidity, and the time, to her anxious mind, seemed lengthened to an inconceivable degree. Towards night, every little town they entered she conceived to be the capital, and was not undeceived till Mademoiselle de Hauteford observed, that they had set out so late she was afraid they would be obliged to pass the night at Ecouen.
In her companion Pauline found but little to console or soothe her under the anxiety and fear which the dangerous enterprise she had undertaken naturally produced. Mademoiselle de Hauteford had little either of warmth of heart or gentleness of disposition; and such were the only qualities which could have assimilated with Pauline’s feelings at that time.
In combating the passionate love with which the King had regarded her, Mademoiselle de Hauteford had entirely triumphed over her own heart, and having crushed every human sensation that it contained, she substituted a rigid principle of duty, which, like the mainspring of a piece of clock-work, originated all her actions, making them regular without energy and correct without feeling.
In the present instance, she seemed to look upon the task which Pauline had undertaken as a thing which ought to be done, and therefore that no doubt or hesitation of any kind could remain upon her mind. She talked calmly of all the difficulties and dangers which presented themselves, and of the best means of obviating them; but did not offer the least consolation to the fears of a young and inexperienced girl, who had taken upon herself a bold and perilous enterprise, in which her own happiness was at stake, as well as the lives and fortunes of others. The indifferent coolness with which she spoke of risks and obstacles was far from reassuring Pauline, who soon dropped the conversation, and sinking into herself, revolved all the circumstances in her mind; her heart sometimes beating high with hope, sometimes sickening at the thought of failure.
Thus in silence the travellers proceeded to Ecouen, where, from the lateness of the hour, they were obliged to pass the night; but leaving it early the next morning, they reached Paris in a short time, and alighted at the hotel of the Marchioness de Senecy. That Lady, it appeared, was absent, having left Paris some time before for a distant part of the country; but this was no disadvantage, as Mademoiselle de Hauteford was well known to the servants that remained in the house, and she did not in the least hesitate to take up her abode there on the service of the Queen, though the mistress of the mansion herself was absent.
At Ecouen, Pauline had dressed herself in the clothes of her maid Louise, and on alighting at the hotel de Senecy, was taken by the servants for the soubrette of Mademoiselle de Hauteford. All this was to her wish; and not a little delighted with the first success of her disguise, she affected the ton paysan, and treated the domestics with the same familiarity which they showed towards her.
An old and confidential servant of the Queen was the only male attendant who accompanied them to Paris, and he took especial care not to undeceive the others in regard to Mademoiselle de Beaumont’s rank, though he had more than once nearly betrayed the secret by smiling at the Lady’s maid airs which Pauline contrived to assume. This task, however, was not of long duration; for Pauline’s anxiety would not suffer her to remain inactive, and she accordingly pressed her companion to set out speedily for the Bastille, afraid that under any long delay her courage, which she felt to be failing every moment, might give way entirely, and that she might at length prove unequal to accomplish her undertaking.
Mademoiselle de Hauteford, whose acquaintance with the city qualified her to act as guide, readily agreed to proceed immediately on their expedition; and Pauline’s disguise as soubrette not permitting her to make use of a mask like her companion, she covered her head as far as she could with a large capuchin of brown tafetas, which, however, was all-insufficient to conceal her face. This being done, she followed the Lady of honour into the street, and in a moment found herself immersed in all the bustle and confusion of the capital.
Poor Pauline’s senses were almost bewildered by the crowd; but Mademoiselle de Hauteford, leaning on her arm, hurried her on as far as the Rue St. Antoine, where she stopped opposite to the Church of St. Gervais, or rather the narrow dirty street which leads towards it.
Here she directed Pauline straight on to the Bastille, and pointing out the church, told her that she would wait there for her return, offering up prayers for the success of her enterprise.
The magnificent peristyle of the Church of St. Gervais, which the celebrated De Brosse is said to have pronounced the most perfect of his works,—observing, like Solon on the Athenian Laws, that it was not, indeed, the best that could be formed, but the best that could be adapted to the old gothic building which he was directed to improve,—was then in the first gloss of its novelty, and amongst the many sombre smoky buildings that she had passed, offered to Pauline’s eye a bright and conspicuous landmark, which she felt sure she could not mistake. She took, however, another glance, and then hurried on towards the Bastille.
Totally ignorant of Paris and all that it contained; young, beautiful and timid; engaged in an undertaking full of danger and difficulty, and dressed in a manner to which she was unaccustomed; Pauline de Beaumont shrank from the glance of the numerous passengers that thronged the Rue St. Antoine; and every eye which, attracted by her loveliness, or by the frightened haste with which she proceeded, gazed on her with more than common attention, she fancied could see into her bosom, and read the secret she was so anxious to conceal.
At length, however, her eye rested on a group of heavy towers, presenting nothing but massy stone walls, pierced with loop-holes, and surmounted at various distances with embrasures, through the aperture of which the threatening mouths of some large cannon were occasionally visible. Sweeping round this gloomy building was a broad fosse filled with water, which prevented all approach but at one particular point, where a drawbridge, suspended by two immense chains, gave access to the outer court. But even here no small precaution was taken to guard against any who came in other than friendly guise; for the gate which terminated the bridge on the inner side, besides the security afforded by its ponderous doors and barricadoes, possessed two flanking-towers, the artillery of which commanded the whole course of the approach.
Pauline had often heard the Bastille described, and its horrors detailed, by the guests who occasionally visited her mother’s château in Languedoc; but, whatever idea she had formed of it, the frowning strength and gloomy horrors which the original presented, far outdid the picture her imagination had drawn; and so strong was the sensation of fear which it produced upon her mind, that she had nearly turned back and run away the moment she beheld it. An instant’s reflection, however, reawakened her courage.
“Claude de Blenau,” she thought, “immured within those walls! and do I hesitate when his life, perhaps, depends upon my exertion?” That thought was enough to recall all her resolution; and rapidly crossing the drawbridge, she passed what is called the grille. But here her farther progress was stayed by a massy door covered with plates and studs of iron, which offered none of those happy contrivances either of modern or ancient days, by which people within are called upon to communicate with people without. There was no horn, as in the days of chivalry, and if there had been, Pauline could not have blown it; but still worse, there was neither bell nor knocker; and the door, far from imitating the gates of Dis, in standing open night and day, seemed most determinately shut, although the comparison might have held in many other respects. With shaking knees and trembling hands Pauline tried for some moments to gain admission, but in vain. The gate resisted all her weak efforts, her voice was scarcely audible, and vexed, wearied, and terrified, and not knowing what to do, she burst into a flood of tears.
At about a hundred yards on the other side of the fosse, forming one corner of the Rue St. Antoine, on the face of which it seemed a wart, or imposthume, stood a little narrow house of two stories high, the front of which displayed an immense board covered with a curious and remarkable device. This represented no other than the form of an immense wild boar, with a napkin tucked under his chin, seated at a table, on which smoked various savoury dishes, of which the above ferocious gentleman appeared to be partaking with a very wild-boarish appetite. Underneath all was written, in characters of such a size that those who ran might read, Au Sanglier Gourmand, and then followed a farther inscription, which went to state that Jacques Chatpilleur, autrefois Vivandier de l’Armée de Perpignan, à present Aubergiste Traiteur, fed the hungry, and gave drink to those that thirsted, at all hours of the day and night.
Every one will allow that this man must have been blessed with a charitable disposition; and it so happened that, standing at his own door, with his heart opened by the benign influence of having cooked a dinner for the Count de Blenau, he beheld the ineffectual efforts of Pauline de Beaumont to gain admission into the Bastille.
The poor little man’s heart was really moved; and skipping across the drawbridge, he was at her side in a moment. “What seek you, charmante demoiselle?” demanded the aubergiste, making her a low bow; and then observing her tears, he added, “Ma pauvre fille, do not weep. Do you wish to get in here?”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Pauline; “but I cannot make them hear.”
“There are many who want to get out, who cannot make them hear either,” said the aubergiste: “but they shall hear me, at all events.” So saying, he drew forth his knife, with a flourish which made Pauline start back, and applied the handle with such force to the gate of the prison, that the whole place echoed with the blows. Immediately, a little wicket was opened, and the head of a surly-looking Porter presented itself at the aperture.
“Philip the Woodman! Philip the Woodman!” said he, as soon as he heard Pauline’s inquiries. “Who is he, I wonder? We have nothing to do with woodmen here. Oh, I remember the man. And we are to break through all rules and regulations for him, I suppose? But I can tell Monsieur Chavigni, or whoever gave the order, that I shall not turn the key for any one except at proper hours; so you cannot see him now, young woman—you cannot see him now.”
“And is not this a proper hour?” asked Pauline. “I thought mid-day was the best time I could come.”
“No!” answered the Porter, “I tell you no, my pretty demoiselle; this is the dinner-hour, so you must come again.”
“When can I come then, Sir?” demanded Pauline, “for I have journeyed a long way to see him.”
“Why, then you are in need of rest,” replied the other, “so you will be all the better for waiting till evening. Come about seven o’clock, and you shall see him.”
“Cannot I see him before that?” asked the young lady, terrified at the delay.
“No! no! no!” roared the Porter, and turned to shut the wicket; but bethinking him for a moment, he called after Mademoiselle de Beaumont—“Who shall I tell him wants him, when I see him?”
Pauline was unprepared with an answer, but the necessity of the moment made her reply, “His daughter;” trusting that, as there must be some understanding between him and De Blenau, the Woodman would conceive her errand, and not betray any surprise, whether he had a daughter or not.
During this conversation, the aubergiste had remained hard by, really compassionating Pauline’s disappointment.
“Ma pauvre fille,” said he, as the wicket closed, “I am very sorry that they treat you so; but they are great brutes in these prisons. Bon Dieu! you look very pale. Come in with me here to my little place, and take some soup, and rest yourself till the time comes round.”
Pauline thanked him for his offer, but declined it, of course; telling him, that she was going to the house of a friend who waited for her; and then taking leave of the good aubergiste, she left him interested in her sorrow, and enchanted by her sweet manner.
“La pauvrette!” said he, as he turned him home, “Elle a bien l’air d’une femme de qualité ça. Il y a quelque chose la dessous, ou je me trompe.”
In the mean while, Pauline returned to the Church of St. Gervais, where she found Mademoiselle de Hauteford still on her knees in the Chapel of St. Denis.
Pauline’s recital of what had happened, called forth but few remarks from her companion, who only observed, that seven would be an unpleasant hour, for that by that time night began to fall. To Mademoiselle de Beaumont, however, night seemed more favourable to her enterprise than day, when the trepidation which she felt was visible to every passing eye; and she congratulated herself on the prospect of the darkness covering the agitation which might lead to suspicion if observed.
I shall not follow the two ladies through the remaining part of the day. Suffice it, that Mademoiselle de Hauteford employed herself in preparations for the long journey which the Cardinal’s sentence of banishment required her to take, and that Pauline’s time passed in anxiety and apprehension, till the hour came for her once more to visit the Bastille.
As soon as the long hand upon the dial pointed towards the Roman capitals IX. and the shorter one to VII. the two ladies set out in the same guise, and on the same route, as in the morning, with only this difference in their proceedings, that the old domestic of the Queen, who had accompanied them to Paris, received orders to follow at a few paces distance, well armed with sword and pistol.
It was now quite dark, and the streets not being so crowded as when she before passed through them, Pauline proceeded more calmly, except when the torch-bearers of some of the gay world of Paris flashed their flambeaux in her eyes as they lighted their lords along to party or spectacle. At the Church of St. Gervais she again left Mademoiselle de Hauteford with the servant; and now, well acquainted with the way, ran lightly along till she arrived at the Bastille, where, not giving her resolution time to fail, she passed the drawbridge, and entered the outer gate, which was at that moment open. Before her stood the figure of the Porter, enjoying the cool evening air that blew through the open gate into the court. His hand rested upon the edge of the door, and the moment Pauline entered, he pushed it to with a clang that made her heart sink.
“Whom have we here,” said he, “that comes in so boldly? Oh, so! is it you, ma belle demoiselle?” he continued, as the light of the lanterns which hung under the arch fell upon her countenance:—“well, you shall see your father now. But first, I think, you had better go and speak to the Governor; he is a man of taste, and would like such a pretty prisoner, no doubt; perhaps he might find a warrant for your detention.”
Pauline’s heart sank at the idea of being carried before the Governor, well knowing how little competent she was to answer any inquiries concerning her errand; but the excess of fear will often give courage, and the most timid animals turn and resist when pressed to extremity. Thus Pauline summoned up all her resolution, and remembering the allusion which the Porter had made to Chavigni’s orders in favour of the Woodman, she replied boldly: “This is no time for jesting, Sir! and as to detaining me, it would be as much as the Governor’s post is worth, if it came to Monsieur de Chavigni’s ears that he ever thought of such a thing.”
“So, so!” cried the Porter with a grin, “you are a friend of Monsieur de Chavigni’s. So—I thought there was something made him so careful of yon sour old Woodman. These great Statesmen must have their little relaxations. So that is it, Mademoiselle? He takes especial care of the father for the daughter’s sake.”
There was a drop or two of the warm blood of Languedoc flowing in Pauline’s veins with all her gentleness, and her patience now became completely exhausted. “Well, Sir!” she answered, “all I have to say to you is, that if I meet with any insolence, it may cost you dear. So bring me to see my father, or refuse me at once.”
“I am not going to refuse you, my pretty demoiselle,” replied the Porter; “though, truly, you speak more like a lady of quality than a Woodman’s daughter. Now I’ll swear you are Madame la Comtesse’s suivante. Nay, do not toss your head so impatiently; your father will be here in a minute; he knows of your having called at the wicket this morning, and is to come here to see you at seven—But here is the Governor, as I live—going to take a twilight walk, I suppose.”
As he spoke, the Governor approached: “Whom have you got here, porter?” he asked, while he eyed Pauline with one of those cool luxurious glances that made her shrink.
“This is the Woodman’s daughter, Sir,” replied the man, “who wishes to speak with her father.”
“By the keys of St. Peter! which are something in my own way,” exclaimed the Governor, “thou art a beautiful daughter for a Woodman. Art thou sure thy mother did not help thee to a better parentage? What is thy father’s name?”
Terrified, confused, and ignorant of the Woodman’s name, Pauline faltered forth, unconscious of what she said, “I do not know.”
“Ha! ha! ha! thou sayest well, my pretty damsel,” cried the Governor laughing, and thinking that she answered his jest in kind. “It is a wise father that knows his own child; and why not a wise child that knows his own father? But without a joke, what is your supposed father’s name?”
“My supposed father!” repeated Pauline, in the same state of perturbation; “Oh, Philip the Woodman.”
“Nay, nay,” replied the Governor, “that does not answer my meaning either. What is the surname of this Philip the Woodman?”
The impossibility of answering overpowered her. Pauline had not the most remote idea of Philip’s name, and another instant would indubitably have betrayed all; but at the moment the Governor asked his question, Philip had entered the court. He had heard the last sentence, saw Pauline’s embarrassment, and divining its cause, with quick presence of mind caught her in his arms, and kissed her on both cheeks, with that sort of fatherly affection which would have deceived the Governor’s eyes by day, much less by the fainter light of the lanterns in the archway.
“My dear child!” cried he, “how art thou? and how is thy mother?” And then turning to the Governor, without giving her time to reply, he went on, “My name, Sir, which you were asking but now, is Philip Grissolles, but I am better known by the name of Philip the Woodman, and some folks add the name of the wood, and call me Philip the Woodman of Mantes.”
“Philip Grissolles!” said the Governor; “very well, that will do. It was your surname that I wished to know, for it is not put down in the order for your detention, and it must be inserted in the books. And now, Monsieur Philip Grissolles, you may take your daughter to your cell; but remember that you have to wait upon the Count de Blenau in half an hour, by which time I shall have returned. You can leave your daughter in your cell till you have done attending the Count, if you like.”
He then proceeded to the gate, and beckoning to the Porter, he whispered to him, “Do not let her go out till I come back. It is seldom that we have any thing like that in the Bastille! Doubtless, that Woodman would be glad to have her with him; if so, we will find her a cell.”
Philip turned his ear to catch what the Governor was saying, but not being able to hear it distinctly, he addressed himself to Pauline loud enough to reach every one round. “Come,” said he, “ma fille, you are frightened at all these towers and walls and places; but it is not so unpleasant after one is in it either. Take my arm, and I’ll show you the way.”
Pauline was glad to accept of his offer, for her steps faltered so much that she could hardly have proceeded without assistance; and thus, leaning on the Woodman, she was slowly conducted through a great many narrow passages, to the small vaulted chamber in which he was lodged.
As soon as they had entered, the Woodman shut the door, and placing for Pauline’s use the only chair that the room contained, he began to pour forth a thousand excuses for the liberty he had taken with her cheek. “I hope you will consider, Mademoiselle, that there was no other way for me to act, in order to bring us out of the bad job we had fallen into. The Porter of the prison told me this morning that my daughter was coming to see me, and knowing very well I had no daughter, I guessed that it was some one on the Count de Blenau’s account; but little did I think that it was you, Mademoiselle—you that I saw in the wood of Mantes on the day he was wounded.”
Pauline was still too much agitated with all that had passed to make any reply, and sitting with her hands pressed over her eyes, her thoughts were all confusion, though one terrible remembrance still predominated, that she was there—in the very heart of the Bastille—far from all those on whom she was accustomed to rely—habited in a disguise foreign to her rank—acting an assumed character, and engaged in an enterprise of life and death.
All this was present to her, not so much as a thought, but as a feeling; and for a moment or two it deprived her not only of utterance, but of reflection. As her mind grew more calm, however, the great object for which she came began again to recover the ascendency; and she gradually regained sufficient command over her ideas to comprehend the nature of the excuses which Philip was still offering for his presumption, as he termed it.
“You did perfectly right,” replied Pauline; “and, having extricated us from a dangerous predicament, merit my sincere thanks. But now,” she continued, “without loss of time I must see the Count de Blenau.”
“See the Count de Blenau!” exclaimed Philip in astonishment. “Impossible, Mademoiselle! utterly impossible! I can deliver a letter or a message; but that is all I can do.”
“Why not?” demanded Pauline. “For pity’s sake, do not trifle with me. If you have free admission to his prison, why cannot you open the way to me?”
“Because, Mademoiselle, there is a sentinel at his door who would not allow you to pass,” replied Philip. “I have no wish to trifle with you, indeed; but what you ask is merely impossible.”
Pauline thought for a moment. “Cannot we bribe the sentinel?” she demanded. “Here is gold.”
“That is not to be done either,” answered Philip. “He is not allowed to speak to any one, or any one to speak to him. The first word, his fusil would be at my breast; and the second, he would fire: such are his orders, Mademoiselle, and be sure he would obey them.”
“Well then,” cried Pauline, “fly to the Count de Blenau, tell him that there is a lady here from the Queen, with a letter which she must not trust to any one else, and ask him what is to be done—but do not stay long, for I am afraid of remaining here by myself.”
The Woodman promised not to be a moment, and hastened to the Count de Blenau’s apartment, where the wary sentinel, as usual, examined him well to ascertain his identity before he gave him admission. He then entered and communicated as rapidly as possible to De Blenau the message he had received.
“It is Mademoiselle de Hauteford, without doubt,” said De Blenau thoughtfully; “I must see her by all means.”
“See her, Sir!” exclaimed Philip. “The guard will never let her pass. It is quite impossible.”
“Not so impossible as you think. The gates of the inner court do not shut, I think, till nearly nine—Is there any one in the court?”
“No one, Sir,” answered the Woodman; “all the State prisoners were locked up at six.”
“Well then, Philip,” proceeded De Blenau, “do you know a small tower in the court, where you just see through the archway part of an old flight of steps?”
“Oh yes, I know it well,” replied Philip. “The tower is never used now, they tell me. There is a heap of rubbish in the doorway.”
“Exactly,” said the Count. “Now, my good Philip, bring the lady with all speed to that tower, and up the old flight of steps till you come to a small iron door: push that with your hand, and you will find that it brings you into the inner room, where I will wait for you.”
Philip’s joy and astonishment found vent in three Bon Dieu’s! and three Est-il possible's and rushing away without more loss of time, he flew to Pauline, whose stay in his cell had been undisturbed by any thing but her own anxious fears. These, however, magnified every sound into the approach of some one to be dreaded. Even the footstep of the Woodman made her heart beat with alarm; but the news he brought far more than compensated for it, and, inspired with new hope, she followed him gladly through the gloomy passages which led to the inner court.
The darkness which pervaded the unlighted avenues of the Bastille was so great, that Pauline was obliged to follow close upon Philip’s footsteps for fear of losing her way. The Woodman, however, was a little in advance, when a faint light showed that they were approaching the open air, and Pauline began to catch an indistinct glimpse of the dark towers that surrounded the inner court. But at that moment Philip drew back:—“There is some one in the court,” he whispered: “Hark!"—and listening, she clearly heard the sound of measured steps crossing the open space before her.
“It is the guard,” said the Woodman, in the same low voice; “they are going to relieve the sentinel at the Count’s door.” He now waited till they were heard ascending the stairs, and then, “Quick, follow me across the court, Mademoiselle,” he said; “for they go through this passage on their return.”
Pauline was about to follow him as he desired, but her dress caught upon one of the staples of the doorway. Philip attempted to disentangle it for her, but in vain, his efforts only fixed it the more. Pauline herself tried to tear it away, but the soubrette’s stout serge-dress would not tear. In the mean time they heard the “Qui vive?” of the sentinel, the countersign returned, the relief of the guard; and by the time that Philip had by main strength torn away the dress from the staple that had caught it, the steps of the soldiers were again heard descending the staircase from the prison of De Blenau.
“For God’s sake, Mademoiselle,” whispered the Woodman, “run back as quickly as you can to my cell, for we cannot pass now without their seeing us. I will wait here, for they would hear my heavy feet in the passage, and follow us both; but if I can stop them a while, I will, to give you time.”
Pauline doubted not that she could remember the turnings, and, gliding along as fast as possible, she endeavoured to find her way back. As she went, she heard some words pass between Philip and the guard; and immediately after, she distinguished that they had entered the passage, for the echoing tramp of their feet, reverberated by the low arches, seemed following close upon her. Terrified and agitated, she flew on with the speed of lightning. But we all know how difficult it is to retrace any course we have pursued in the dark; and in her haste and confusion, Pauline lost the turning she ought to have taken, and, afraid of going back, even after she discovered her mistake, she paused for a moment in a state of alarm and suspense, little short of agony.
She could now distinctly hear the guard approaching, and not knowing where the passage might terminate, or what might obstruct the path, she felt her way with her hand along the wall, till at length she discovered a small recess, apparently one of those archways which gave entrance to the various cells, for beneath her fingers she felt the massy bolts and fastenings which secured it from without. She had scarce a moment to think, but, placing herself under the arch, she drew back as far as possible, in the hope that sheltered by the recess, and concealed by the darkness, the guard would pass her by unnoticed.
It was a dreadful moment for poor Pauline. The soldiers were not so near as the echoes of the place had led her to imagine; and she had several minutes to wait, holding her breath, and drawing herself in, as if to nothing, while the tramp of the armed feet came nearer and nearer, till at length she felt, or fancied that she felt, their clothes brush against her as they passed; and then heard their steps becoming fainter and more faint as they proceeded to some other part of the building.
It was not till all was again silent, that Pauline ventured, still trembling with the danger she had just escaped, to seek once more the path she had lost in her terror. But her search was now in vain; she had entirely forgot the turnings that she had taken in her flight, and in the darkness only went wandering on from one passage to another, starting at every sound, and always convinced that she was mistaken, but not knowing in what direction to seek the right.
At length, however, she found herself at a gateway which led into what seemed an open court, and imagining from the towers she saw round about, that she had arrived once more at the spot from which she had been frightened by the approach of the guards, she resolved again to seek more cautiously the cell of the Woodman, to which, of course, he would return in search of her. But as she turned to put this resolve in execution, she perceived a light coming down the passage towards her; and without giving herself a moment to reflect that it might possibly be the Woodman himself, fear seized her again, and darting across the court, she looked round for some place of concealment.
Exactly opposite, she perceived another archway similar to the one she had left, and concealing herself within it, she paused to see who it was that followed, it just occurring to her mind at that instant, that perhaps she was in full career away from the very person she wished to find. But, the moment after, the light appeared in the archway, and glancing on the face of the man who carried it, discovered to her the features of the Governor.
This sight was not calculated to allay her fears; but her alarm was infinitely increased when she perceived that he began crossing the court towards the spot where she stood. Flight again became her resource, and, turning to escape through the passages to which she supposed that archway led, as well as the others, she struck her foot against some steps and had nearly fallen. Recovering herself, however, without loss of time she began ascending the steps that lay before her, nor stopped, till reaching a small landing-place, she looked through one of the loopholes in the wall, and beheld the Governor directing his course to another part of the building.
Satisfied that he did not follow her, but faint and out of breath with the speed she had employed in her flight, Pauline paused for a moment’s repose; and stretching out her hand, she leaned against a door which stood at the top of the staircase:—however, it afforded her no support, for the moment she touched it, it gave way under her hand, and flying open, discovered to her a well-lighted apartment. New terror seized upon Pauline; her eyes were dazzled by the sudden glare, and drawing back she would have fallen headlong down the stairs, but at that instant she was caught in the arms of De Blenau.
CHAPTER IX.
Which gets Pauline out, and Philip in, and leaves De Blenau in the middle.
THE tumult of joy and surprise—the mutual explanations—the delight of De Blenau—the relief to Pauline—with the thousand little et-cetera of such a meeting, I must leave to the reader’s imagination, which will doubtless do much more justice to every circumstance than could the quill of a foolish bird such as I hold in my hand. Neither shall I dilate upon the surprise of Philip the woodman, when, on coming to inform De Blenau that he had lost the lady in the windings of the Bastille, he discovered that she had found her way to the object of her search without his sage guidance. One piece of information, however, he conveyed, which hurried their conference towards a conclusion. The Governor, he said, who had been absent, had returned, and was then engaged in visiting the western wards; and therefore he might be shortly expected in that part of the prison.
This unpalatable news reminded Pauline to deliver the letter from the Queen, which in the joy and agitation of their first meeting she had neglected to do. De Blenau looked it over with a hurried glance. “She commands me,” said he, “to confess all exactly as it occurred; but on one or two points I have already refused to answer, and if I do so now without producing the Queen’s warrant for my conduct, I shall be held a base coward, who betrays his trust for fear of the torture.”
“And do you hesitate, Claude?” demanded Pauline, rather reproachfully—“do you hesitate to take the only means which can save you? Do you think nothing of what I feel? You, Claude, may be proof against corporeal torture; but I can not endure much longer the mental agony I have suffered since you have been confined here, especially when I reflected that even while you were acting most nobly, I was suspecting you ungenerously. If you love me as you profess, dear Claude, you will take the means that the Queen directs to ensure your safety.”
“Well, dearest Pauline,” replied De Blenau, yielding to the all-persuasive eloquence of woman’s lips, “I will do as you wish, and endeavour to pursue such measures as will be both safe and honourable. But now conclude what you were telling me, of having lost yourself in the prison, and how you found your way hither.”
It may be necessary to explain, that while this conversation had taken place between De Blenau and Pauline in the inner apartment, Philip the woodman had remained in the outer chamber, keeping watch with his ear to the door which communicated with the staircase, in order to apprise them in time of the Governor’s approach. Pauline now had not time to conclude her little history of perilous escapes and dangers ere Philip entering from the outer chamber interrupted her: “Fly down the stairs, Mademoiselle,” cried he, “and wait at the bottom till I join you. The Governor is coming, for I hear other steps on the stairs as well as those of the sentinel at the top.”
Prisons are not places for great ceremonies, nor for all the mighty delicacies of general society; so Pauline suffered De Blenau to press his lips upon hers unreproved, and then fled down the back staircase with the speed of light; after which the Count shut and bolted the iron door, and passed into the outer chamber, while the Woodman bustled about in the inner one, arranging the Count’s apparel for the night, and appearing much more busy than he really was.
Thus every thing was as it should be when the Governor entered; but still there was an angry spot upon his brow, and with but a slight inclination to De Blenau, he looked through the door between the two chambers, saying, “Well, Mr. Woodman of Mantes, where is your daughter? She is not in your cell.”
“You have made sure of that in person, I suppose,” replied Philip, in his usual surly manner.
“Whether I have or not,” answered the Governor, “does but little signify. I ask where is your daughter? We must have no strangers wandering about the Bastille.”
“I know my child’s beauty as well as you do, Monsieur,” replied Philip, “and was too wise to leave her in my cell, where every one that chose would have liberty and time to affront her, while I was attending upon Monsieur le Comte here: so I made her come with me, and set her under the archway of the old tower to wait till I was done. Now, if Monsieur has done with me, I will go and conduct her to the outer gate, and never with my will shall she set her foot within these walls again.”
“I have no farther need of you to-night, Philip,” said De Blenau, as the Woodman stood at the door ready to depart; and then seeing that the Governor turned to follow him out, he added, “Monsieur le Gouverneur, will you sup with me this evening?”
Philip quitted the room, but the Governor was obliged to stay to reply. “With pleasure, Sir, with pleasure,” said he. “I will be back with you immediately, before my servant brings the plates; but I must first take the liberty of seeing this demoiselle out of the prison gates.” He then left De Blenau, and having bolted the door, followed the Woodman quickly down the steps. Philip, however, had gained so much upon him, that he had time to whisper to Pauline, whom he found waiting in the archway: “The Governor is coming, but do not be alarmed. Let him think that I bade you wait for me here till I had attended the Count.”
Pauline, however, could not help being alarmed. While the excitement of her enterprise had continued, it afforded a false sort of courage, which carried her through; but now that her object was gained, all her native timidity returned, and she thought of encountering the Governor again with fear and trembling. Nor had she much time to recall her spirits before he himself joined them.
“Well, my fair demoiselle,” he cried, “I think if I had known that you were waiting here all alone in the dark, I should have paid you a visit;” and he raised the lamp close to Pauline’s face, which was as pale as death. “Why, you look as terrified,” proceeded the Governor, “as if you had been committing murder. Well, I will light you out, and when you come to-morrow, you will not be so frightened. At what hour do you come, eh?”
“I desire that you would not come at all,” said Philip aloud, as he followed the Governor, who was escorting Pauline along with an air of gallantry and badinage which did not at all set off his thin demure features to advantage, especially in the unbecoming light of the lamp that flickered upon them but at intervals, tipping all the acute angles of his countenance with not the most agreeable hue. “I desire that you would not come at all: you have been here once too often already. Let your brother Charles come the next time.”
The Governor darted a glance at Philip, which certainly evinced that his face could take on, when it liked, an expression of hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness; and in a minute or two after, by some means, the lamp went out in his hands. “Here, Philip,” cried he, “take the lamp, and get a light.”
“Your pardon, Sir,” answered the sturdy Woodman; “not till I have seen my daughter beyond the gates.”
“Philip Grissolles, or Philip the Woodman, or whatever you call yourself,” cried the Governor, “are you mad? Do you know what you are about? Go and fetch me a light instantly, or refuse me at your peril.”
“I do refuse then,” replied the Woodman, who had learned by conversation with the Porter and turnkeys, how much power the Governor had placed in his hands by permitting him to attend upon the Count de Blenau; “I am your prisoner, Sir,” he continued, “but not your servant.”
“I have allowed you to act as such in the prison,” said the Governor, “and there are no servants here but mine.”
“In suffering me to attend upon the Count de Blenau,” rejoined Philip boldly, “you have outstepped your duty, and broken the express order of the Cardinal. So much have I learned since I came here—therefore allow my daughter to depart quietly, Sir. We shall find a light in the Porter’s room.”
“By Heavens! I have a mind to detain the girl all night, for your insolence,” cried the Governor, stamping with rage.
“Oh, for God’s sake do not!” exclaimed Pauline, clasping her hands; but Philip came close up to him,—“You dare not,” said he, in a low voice; “for your head, you dare not.” And then added aloud to Pauline, “Come along, my child; Monsieur le Gouverneur will let you out.”
During this altercation they had continued to proceed; and the Governor, knowing that his violation of the Cardinal’s commands with regard to the strict confinement of De Blenau, might bring his head to the block if sifted thoroughly, thought it best to abstain from irritating a person who not only possessed, but knew that he possessed, so much power. Not that he would not willingly have silenced the Woodman by some of those infallible means which were much resorted to in that day; but that he knew Chavigni was not easily satisfied on such points; and thus being in a situation which is popularly expressed by “the horns of a dilemma,” like a good Christian as he was, he chose rather to risk discovery than commit a murder which would undoubtedly be found out. Under these circumstances, he permitted Philip and Pauline to proceed to the gates, and ordered the Porter to give the young lady egress, taking care, however, to follow them all the way till they arrived at the last gate opening upon the drawbridge, which, at the time they arrived, had not been yet raised for the evening.
Pauline’s heart beat with glad impatience as the Janitor put his key into the lock, whose bolt grating harshly, as it was withdrawn, produced to her ears most excellent music.
It so unfortunately happened, however, that at the moment the gate swung heavily back upon its hinges, Charles, the Woodman’s son, presented himself for admission; and having before had free access to his father, was proceeding calmly through the open door, without taking any notice of Mademoiselle de Beaumont, whom he did not recognize in her disguise.
“What!” exclaimed the Governor, whose Bastille habits rendered him quick to the slightest suspicion; “do you not speak to your sister?”
“Sister!” said the boy, confounded; “I have no sister!”
Pauline saw that in another moment all would be lost; and darting past the Governor, she was through the gate, and over the drawbridge in a moment.
“Nom de Dieu!” cried the Governor: “Follow her, Letrames!—quick, quick!”
The Turnkey was on Pauline’s footsteps in a minute; but she had gained so much in the first instance, that she would certainly have escaped with ease, if an envious stone had not obstructed her path at the bottom of the glacis, and striking her foot, occasioned her to fall. Pauline uttered a scream of both pain and fear; and two steps would have brought the Turnkey to the spot where she lay, when suddenly a small, strange-shaped figure in white, skipped over her prostrate form, and interposed between her and her pursuer.
“Ventre Saint Gris!” cried the redoubtable Jacques Chatpilleur, cuisinier aubergiste, who thus came to her assistance—“You shall not touch her!” and drawing the long rapier that hung beside his carving-knife, he made a pass so near the breast of the Turnkey, that the official started back full ten paces, not knowing, in the dim light of the hour, what hobgoblin shape thus crossed his purpose. “Maraud!” continued the aubergiste, “Who are you that dare to injure this demoiselle? under the very walls of the Bastille, too, contrary to the peace and quiet of His Majesty’s true subjects! Get thee gone! or I will spit thee like a chapon de maine, or rather skewer thee like an ortolan under the wings.”
This professional allusion, together with a moment’s reflection, enabled Letrames, the turnkey, to call to mind the ancien vivandier; and showering upon him a thousand harsh epithets for his interference, he called upon him to stand aside, and let him secure his prisoner; still, however, standing aloof from the point of the weapon,—for Jacques Chatpilleur, while vivandier to the army, had shown that he could gather laurels with his sword, as well as with his knife; and had as often, to use Sancho’s expression, given his enemies a bellyfull of dry blows, as he had filled his friends with more dainty fare; with this difference, however, that the drubbings he bestowed gratis.
In the present instance, he either did not, or would not, know the Turnkey; and continued vociferating to him to hold off, and tell who he was, with such reiteration, that for some time the other had no opportunity of replying. At length, however, he roared, rather than said, “Jacques Diable! you know me well enough; I am Letrames, Géolier au château.”
The aubergiste looked over his shoulder, and seeing that Pauline was no longer visible, he very quietly put up his rapier, saying, “Mais mon Dieu! mon ami, why did you not tell me that before? Je vous en demande mille pardons;” and seizing the Turnkey in his arms, he embraced him, making a thousand excuses for having mistaken him, and hugging him with a sort of malicious affection, which quite put a stop to his pursuit of Pauline.
The only benediction that the gaoler thought proper to bestow on the little aubergiste, was a thousand curses, struggling all the time to free himself from the serpent folds of Chatpilleur’s embrace. But it was not till the aubergiste had completely satisfied himself, that he suffered Letrames to escape, and then very composedly offered to assist him in the pursuit, which he well knew would now be ineffectual.
The darkness of the night had prevented this scene from being visible from the gates of the Bastille, and Letrames, on his return to the prison, was too wise to complain of the conduct of our friend Chatpilleur; a vivandier at the gates of the Bastille being much too convenient an acquaintance to be quarrelled with upon trifles.
During his absence, the wrath of the Governor turned upon Philip the woodman. “What is the meaning of this? Villain!” exclaimed he, “this is none of your daughter! Fouchard! La Heuterie!” he called aloud to some of his satellites—“quick! bring me a set of irons! we shall soon hear who this is, Monsieur Philip Grissoles!”
“You will never hear any thing from me more than you know already,” replied Philip; “so put what irons on me you like. But you had better beware, Sir Governor; those that meddle with pitch will stick their fingers. You do not know what you may bring upon your head.”
“Silence, fool!” cried the Governor, in a voice that made the archway ring; “you know not what you have brought upon your own head.—Fouchard! La Heuterie! I say, why are you so long? Oh, here you come at last. Now secure that fellow, and down with him to one of the black dungeons!—Porter, turn that young viper out,” he continued, pointing to Charles, who stood trembling and weeping by his father’s side; “Turn him out, I say!—we will have no more of these traitors than we have occasion for.”
At the word the dark dungeon, Philip’s courage had almost failed him, and it was not without an effort that he kept his sturdy limbs from betraying his emotion, while the gaolers began to place the irons on his wrists and ancles: but when he heard the order to drive forth his son, he made a strong effort and caught the boy in his arms: “God bless you, Charles! God bless you, my boy! and fear not for me,” he exclaimed, “while there is a Power above.”
It was a momentary solace to embrace his child, but the Porter soon tore the boy from his arms, and pushing him through the gate closed it after him, rejoicing that he should no more have to turn the key for any of the Woodman’s family. “Now,” said he, “now we shall have no more trouble; I hate to see all our good old rules and regulations broken through. I dare say if his Eminence the Cardinal—God protect him!—were to follow this Monsieur Chavigni’s advice, we should have every thing out of order; and all the good store of chains and irons here in the lodge would get rusty for want of use.”
“Peace, peace!” cried the Governor: “La Heuterie, take that fellow down, as I told you. He shall have the question to-morrow, and we shall see if he finds that so easy to bear. Away with him, quick!—A fool I was to be so deceived!—I suspected something when she stammered so about her father’s name.” So saying, he turned to hear the report of Letrames, who at that moment returned from his unsuccessful pursuit of Pauline.
In the mean while, the gaolers led Philip, who moved with difficulty in his heavy irons, across the first and second court, and opening a low door in the western tower displayed to his sight a flight of steps leading down to the lower dungeons. At this spot La Heuterie, who seemed superior in rank to his fellow-turnkey, lighted a torch that he had brought with him at his companion’s lantern, and descending to the bottom of the steps, held it up on high to let Philip see his way down. The Woodman shuddered as he gazed at the deep gloomy chasm which presented itself but half seen by the glare of the torch, the light of which glancing upon the wall in different places, showed its green damp and ropy slime, without offering any definite limit to the dark and fearful vacuity. But he had no time to make any particular remark, for the second gaoler, who stood at his side, rudely forced him on; and descending the slippy stone steps, he found himself in a large long vault, paved with round stones, and filled with heavy subterranean air, which at first made the torch burn dim, and took away the Woodman’s breath. As the light, however, spread slowly through the thick darkness, he could perceive three doors on either hand, which he conceived to give entrance to some of those under-ground dungeons, whose intrinsic horror, as well as the fearful uses to which they were often applied, had given a terrific fame to the name of the Bastille, and rendered it more dreaded than any other prison in France.
During this time they had paused a moment, moving the torch slowly about, as if afraid that it would be extinguished by the damp, but when the flame began to rise again, La Heuterie desired his companion to bring the prisoner to number six, and proceeding to the extremity of the vault, they opened the farthest door on the left, which led into a low damp cell, cold, narrow, and unfurnished, the very abode of horror and despair. Into this they pushed the unfortunate Woodman, following themselves, to see, as they said, if there was any straw.
“Have you brought some oil with you?” demanded La Heuterie, examining a rusty iron lamp that hung against the wall: “This is quite out.”
“No, indeed,” replied Fouchard, “and we cannot get any to-night: but he does not want it till day. It is time for him to go to sleep.”
“No, no,” rejoined the other, who seemed at least to have some human feeling; “do not leave the poor devil without light. Give him your lantern, man; you can fetch it to-morrow, when you come round to trim the lamps.”
The man grumbled, but did as La Heuterie bade him; and having fastened the lantern on the hook where the lamp hung, they went away, leaving Philip to meditate over his fate in solitude.
“I have brought it on myself at last,” thought the Woodman, as looking round him he found all the horrors he had dreamed of the Bastille more than realized; and his spirit sank within him. Cut off from all communication with any human being, he had now no means of making his situation known; and the horrible idea of the torture shook all his resolution and unmanned his heart.
It would hardly be fair to pursue the course of his reflections any farther; for if, when he remembered his happy cottage in the wood of Mantes, and his wife, and his little ones, a momentary thought of disclosing all he knew crossed the Woodman’s mind, the next instant, the ruin of the Queen, the death of the good Count de Blenau, and a train of endless ills and horrors to those who confided in him, flashed across his imagination, and nerved his heart to better things. He called to mind every generous principle of his nature; and though but a humble peasant, he struggled nobly against the dishonouring power of fear.
Sleep, however, was out of the question; and he sat mournfully on the straw that had been placed for his bed, watching the light in the lantern, as inch by inch it burned away, till at last it gleamed for a moment in the socket—sank—rose again with a bright flash, and then became totally extinguished. He now remained in utter darkness, and a thousand vague and horrible fancies crowded upon his imagination while he sat there, calculating how near it was to day, when he fancied that even the momentary presence of the gaoler would prove some relief to the blank solitude of his situation. Hour after hour, however, passed away, and no glimpse of light told him it was morning. At length the door opened and the gaoler appeared, bringing with him a fresh lighted lamp, thus offering a frightful confirmation of Philip’s fears that the beams of day never penetrated to the place of his confinement.
The gaoler took down the lantern, and having fastened the lamp in its place, gave to the unfortunate Woodman a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water. “Come!” exclaimed Fouchard, in a tone which spoke no great pleasure in the task; “get up; I am to take off your irons for you: and truly, there is no great use of them, for if you were the Devil himself, you could not get out here.”
“I suppose so,” answered Philip. “But I trust that it will not be long before I am released altogether.”
“Why, I should guess that it would not,” answered the gaoler, in somewhat of a sarcastic tone, still continuing to unlock the irons; “People do not in general stay here very long.”
“How so?” demanded Philip anxiously, misdoubting the tone in which the other spoke.
“Why,” replied he, “you must know there are three ways, by one of which prisoners are generally released, as you say, altogether; and one way is as common as another, so far as my experience goes. Sometimes they die under the torture; at other times they are turned out to have their head struck off; or else they die of the damp: which last we call being Home sick.” And with this very consolatory speech he bundled up the irons under his arm, and quitted the cell, taking care to fasten the door behind him.