Which shows that diadems are not without their thorns.
THIS shall be a short Chapter, I am determined; because it is one of the most important in the whole book.
During the absence of the King and Chavigni in the chase, two arrivals had taken place at Chantilly very nearly at the same moment. Luckily, however, the Queen had just time to alight from her carriage, and seek her apartments, before the Cardinal de Richelieu entered the court-yard, thus avoiding an interview with her deadly enemy on the very threshold,—an interview, from which she might well have drawn an inauspicious augury, without even the charge of superstition.
As soon as Chavigni had (as far as possible) provided for his own safety by despatching the order for Philip’s arrest, he proceeded to the apartments of Richelieu, and there he gave that Minister an exact account of all he had heard, observed, and done; commenting particularly upon the violent and irascible mood of the King, and the advantages which might be thence derived, if they could turn his anger in the direction that they wished.
In the mean while Louis proceeded to the apartments of the Queen, not indeed hurried on by any great affection for his wife, but desirous of seeing his children, whom he sincerely loved, notwithstanding the unaccountable manner in which he so frequently absented himself from them.
Never very attentive to dress, Louis the Thirteenth, when any thing disturbed or irritated him, neglected entirely the ordinary care of his person. In the present instance he made no change in his apparel, although the sports in which he had been engaged had not left it in a very fit state to grace a drawing-room. Thus, in a pair of immense jack-boots, his hat pressed down upon his brows, and his whole dress soiled, deranged, and covered with dust, he presented himself in the saloon where Anne of Austria sat surrounded by the young Princes and the ladies who had accompanied her to Chantilly.
The Queen immediately rose to receive her husband, and advanced towards him with an air of gentle kindness, mixed however with some degree of apprehension; for to her eyes, long accustomed to remark the various changes of his temper, the disarray of his apparel plainly indicated the irritation of his mind.
Louis saluted her but coldly, and without taking off his hat. “I am glad to see you well, Madam,” said he, and passed on to the nurse who held in her arms the young Dauphin.
The child had not seen its father for some weeks, and now perceiving a rude-looking ill-dressed man, approaching hastily towards it, became frightened, hid its face on the nurse’s shoulder, and burst into tears.
The rage of the King now broke the bounds of common decency.
“Ha!” exclaimed he, stamping on the ground with his heavy boot, till the whole apartment rang: “is it so, Madam? Do you teach my children, also, to dislike their father?”
“No, my Lord, no, indeed!” replied Anne of Austria, in a tone of deep distress, seeing this unfortunate contretems so strangely misconstrued to her disadvantage. “I neither teach the child to dislike you, nor does he dislike you; but you approached Louis hastily, and with your hat flapped over your eyes, so that he does not know you. Come hither, Louis,” she continued, taking the Dauphin out of the nurse’s arms. “It is your father; do not you know him? Have I not always told you to love him?”
The Dauphin looked at his mother, and then at the King, and perfectly old enough to comprehend what she said, he began to recognize his father, and held out his little arms towards him. But Louis turned angrily away.
“A fine lesson of dissimulation!” he exclaimed; and advanced towards his second son, who then bore the title of Duke of Anjou. “Ah, my little Philip,” he continued, as the infant received him with a placid smile,—“you are not old enough to have learned any of these arts. You can love your father without being told to show it, like an ape at a puppet-show.”
At this new attack, the Queen burst into tears.
“Indeed, indeed, my Lord,” she said, “you wrong me. Oh, Louis! how you might have made me love you once!” and her tears redoubled at the thought of the past. “But I am a weak fool,” she continued, wiping the drops from her eyes, “to feel so sensibly what I do not deserve—At present your Majesty does me deep injustice.—I have always taught both my children to love and respect their father. That name is the first word that they learn to pronounce; and from me they learn to pronounce it with affection. But oh, my Liege! what will these dear children think in after years, when they see their father behave to their mother, as your Majesty does towards me?”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed the King, “let us have no more of all this. I hate these scenes of altercation. Fear not, Madam; the time will come, when these children will learn to appreciate us both thoroughly.”
“I hope not, my Lord"—replied the Queen fervently—“I hope not. From me, at least, they shall never learn all I have to complain of in their father.”
Had Anne of Austria reflected, she would have been silent; but it is sometimes difficult to refrain when urged by taunts and unmerited reproach. That excellent vial of water, which the Fairy bestowed upon the unhappy wife, is not always at hand to impede the utterance of rejoinders, which, like rejoinders in the Court of Chancery, only serve to urge on the strife a degree farther, whether they be right or wrong. In the present case the King’s pale countenance flushed with anger. “Beware, Madam, beware!” exclaimed he. “You have already been treated with too much lenity—Remember the affair of Chalais!”
“Well, Sir!” replied the Queen, raising her head with an air of dignity: “Your Majesty knows, and feels, and has said, that I am perfectly guiltless of that miserable plot. My Lord, my Lord! if you can lay your head upon your pillow conscious of innocence like mine, you will sleep well; my bosom at least is clear.”
“See that it be, Madam,” replied Louis, darting upon her one of those fiery and terrible glances in which the whole vindictive soul of his Italian mother blazed forth in his eyes with the glare of a basilisk. “See that it be, Madam; for there may come worse charges than that against you.—I have learned from a sure source that a Spaniard is seeking my overthrow, and a woman is plotting my ruin,” he continued, repeating the words of the Astrologer; “that a Prince is scheming my destruction, and a Queen is betraying my trust—so, see that your bosom be clear, Madam.” And passing quickly by her, he left the apartment, exclaiming loud enough for all within it to hear, “Where is his Eminence of Richelieu? Some one, give him notice that the King desires his presence when he has leisure.”
Anne of Austria clasped her hands in silence, and looking up to Heaven seemed for a moment to petition for support under the new afflictions she saw ready to fall upon her; and then without a comment on the painful scene that had just passed, returned to her ordinary employments.
Containing a great many things not more curious and interesting than true.
IN the old Chateau of Chantilly was a long gallery, which went by the name of the Cours aux cerfs, from the number of stags’ heads which appeared curiously sculptured upon the frieze, with their long branching horns projecting from the wall, and so far extended on both sides as to cross each other and form an extraordinary sort of trellis-work architrave, before they reached the ceiling.
The windows of this gallery were far apart, and narrow, admitting but little light into the interior, which, being of a dingy stone colour, could hardly have been rendered cheerful even by the brightest sunshine; but which, both from the smallness of the windows and the projection of a high tower on the other side of the court, was kept in continual shadow, except when in the longest days of summer the sun just passed the angle of the opposite building and threw a parting gleam through the last window, withdrawn as quickly as bestowed.
But at the time I speak of, namely, two days after the Queen’s arrival at Chantilly, no such cheering ray found entrance. It seemed, indeed, a fit place for melancholy imaginings; and to such sad purpose had Anne of Austria applied it. For some time she had been standing at one of the windows, leaning on the arm of Madame de Beaumont, and silently gazing with abstracted thoughts upon the open casements of the corridor on the other side, when the figures of Richelieu and Chavigni, passing by one of them, in their full robes, caught her eye; and withdrawing from the conspicuous situation in which she was placed, she remarked to the Marchioness what she had seen, and observed that they must be going to the council-chamber.
Thus began a conversation which soon turned to the King, and to his strange conduct, which ever since their arrival had continued in an increasing strain of petulance and ill-temper.
“Indeed, Madam,” said the Marchioness de Beaumont, “your Majesty’s gentleness is misapplied. Far be it from me to urge aught against my King; but there be some dispositions to have their vehemence checked and repelled; and it is well also for themselves, when they meet with one who will oppose them firmly and boldly.”
“Perhaps, De Beaumont,” replied the Queen, “if I had taken that course many years ago, it might have produced a happy effect; but now, alas! it would be in vain; and God knows whether it would have succeeded even then!”
As she spoke, the door of the gallery opened, and an officer of the Council appeared, notifying to the Queen that his Majesty the King demanded her presence in the council-chamber.
Anne of Austria turned to Madame de Beaumont with a look of melancholy foreboding. “More, more, more still to endure,” she said: and then added, addressing the officer, “His Majesty’s commands shall be instantly obeyed; so inform him, Sir.—De Beaumont, tell Mademoiselle de Hauteford that I shall be glad of her assistance too. You will go with me, of course.”
Mademoiselle de Hauteford instantly came at the Queen’s command, and approaching her with a sweet and placid smile, said a few words of comfort to her Royal mistress in so kind and gentle a manner, that the tears rose in the eyes of Anne of Austria.
“De Hauteford!” said she, “I feel a presentiment that we shall soon part, and therefore I speak to you now of what I never spoke before. I know how much I have to thank you for—I know how much you have rejected for my sake—The love of a King would have found few to refuse it. You have done so for my sake, and you will have your reward.”
The eloquent blood spread suddenly over the beautiful countenance of the lady of honour. “Spare me, spare me, your Majesty,” cried she, kissing the hand the Queen held out to her. “I thought that secret had been hidden in my bosom alone. But oh let me hope that, even had it not been for my love for your Majesty, I could still have resisted. Yes! yes!” continued she, clasping her hands, and murmuring to herself the name of a higher and holier King, “yes! yes! I could have resisted!”
The unusual energy with which the beautiful girl spoke, on all ordinary occasions so calm and imperturbable, showed the Queen how deeply her heart had taken part in that to which she alluded; and perhaps female curiosity might have led her to prolong the theme, though a painful one to both parties, had not the summons of the King required her immediate attention.
As they approached the council-chamber, Madame de Beaumont observed that the Queen’s steps wavered.
“Take courage, Madam,” said she. “For Heaven’s sake, call up spirit to carry you through, whatever may occur.”
“Fear not, De Beaumont,” replied the Queen, though her tone betrayed the apprehension she felt. “They shall see that they cannot frighten me.”
At that moment the Huissier threw open the door of the council-chamber, and the Queen with her ladies entered, and found themselves in the presence of the King and all his principal ministers. In the centre of the room, strewed with various papers and materials for writing, stood a long table, at the top of which, in a seat slightly raised above the rest, sat Louis himself, dressed, as was usual with him, in a suit of black silk, without any ornament whatever, except three rows of sugar-loaf buttons of polished jet,—if these could be considered as ornamental. His hat, indeed, which he continued to wear, was looped up with a small string of jewels; and the feather, which fell much on one side, was buttoned with a diamond of some value; but these were the only indications by which his apparel could have been distinguished from that of some poor avoué, or greffier de la cour.
On the right hand of the King was placed the Cardinal de Richelieu, in his robes; and on the left, was the Chancellor Seguier. Bouthilliers, Chavigni, Mazarin, and other members of the council, filled the rest of the seats round the table; but at the farther end was a vacant space, in front of which the Queen now presented herself, facing the chair of the King.
There was an angry spot on Louis’s brow, and as Anne of Austria entered, he continued playing with the hilt of his sword, without once raising his eyes towards her. The Queen’s heart sank, but still she bore an undismayed countenance, while the Cardinal fixed upon her the full glance of his dark commanding eyes, and rising from his seat, slightly inclined his head at her approach.
The rest of the Council rose, and Chavigni turned away his eyes, with an ill-defined sensation of pain and regret; but the more subtle Mazarin, ever watchful to court good opinion, whether for present, or for future purposes, glided quietly round, and placed a chair for her at the table. It was an action not forgotten in after days.
A moment’s pause ensued. As soon as the Queen was seated, Richelieu glanced his eye towards the countenance of the King, as if to instigate him to open the business of the day: but Louis’s attention was deeply engaged in his sword-knot, or at least seemed to be so, and the Cardinal was at length forced to proceed himself.
“Your Majesty’s presence has been desired by the King, who is like a God in justice and in equity,” said Richelieu, proceeding in that bold and figurative style, in which all his public addresses were conceived, “in order to enable you to cast off, like a raiment that has been soiled by a foul touch, the accusations which have been secretly made against you, and to explain some part of your conduct, which, as clouds between the earth and the sun, have come between yourself and your royal husband, intercepting the beams of his princely approbation. All this your Majesty can doubtless do, and the King has permitted the Council to hear your exculpation from your own lips, that we may trample under our feet the foul suspicions that appear against you.”
“Lord Cardinal,” replied the Queen, calmly, but firmly, “I wonder at the boldness of your language. Remember, Sir, whom it is that you thus presume to address—The wife of your Sovereign, Sir, who sits there, bound to protect her from insult and from injury.”
“Cease, cease, Madam!” cried Louis, breaking silence. “First prove yourself innocent, and then use the high tone of innocence, if you will.”
“To you, my Lord,” replied the Queen, “I am ready to answer every thing, truly and faithfully, as a good wife, and a good subject; but not to that audacious vassal, who, in oppressing and insulting me, but degrades your authority and weakens your power.”
“Spare your invectives, Madam,” said the Cardinal calmly, “for, if I be not much mistaken, before you leave this chamber you will be obliged to acknowledge all that is contained in the paper before me; in which case, the bad opinion of your Majesty would be as the roar of idle wind, that hurteth not the mariner on shore.”
“My Lord and Sovereign,” said the Queen, addressing Louis, without deigning to notice the Cardinal, “it seems that some evil is laid to my charge; will you condescend to inform me of what crime I am accused, that now calls your Majesty’s anger upon me?—If loving you too well,—if lamenting your frequent absence from me,—if giving my whole time and care to your children, be no crimes, tell me, my Lord, tell me, what I have done.”
“What you have done, Madam, is easily told,” exclaimed Louis, his eyes flashing fire. “Give me that paper, Lord Cardinal;” and passing hastily from article to article of its contents, he continued: “Have you not, contrary to my express command, and the command of the Council, corresponded with Philip of Spain? Have you not played the spy upon the plans of my Government, and caused the defeat of my armies in Flanders, the losses of the Protestants in Germany, the failure of all our schemes in Italy, by the information you have conveyed? Have you not written to Don Francisco de Mello, and your cousin the Archduke? Have you not——”
“Never, never!” exclaimed the Queen, clasping her hands, “never, so help me Heaven!”
“What!” cried Louis, dashing the paper angrily upon the table. “Darest thou deny what is as evident as the sun in the noonday sky? Remember, Madam, that your minion, De Blenau, is in the Bastille, and will soon forfeit his life upon the scaffold, if his obstinacy does not make him die under the question.”
“For poor De Blenau’s sake, my Lord,” replied the Queen,—“for the sake of as noble, and as innocent a man as ever was the victim of tyranny, I will tell you at once, that I have written to Philip of Spain—my own dear brother. And who can blame me, my Lord, for loving one who has always loved me? But I knew my duty better than ever once to mention even the little that I knew of the public affairs of this kingdom: and far less, your Majesty, did I pry into secret plans of State policy for the purpose of divulging them. My letters, my Lord, were wholly domestic. I spoke of myself, of my husband, of my children; I spoke as a woman, a wife, and a mother; but never, my Lord, as a Queen; and never, never as a spy.
“As to De Blenau, my Lord, let me assure you, that before he undertook to forward those letters, he exacted from me a promise, that they should never contain any thing which could impeach his honour, or his loyalty. This, my Lord, is all my crime, and this is the extent of his.”
There was a degree of simplicity and truth in the manner of the Queen, which operated strongly on the mind of Louis. “But who,” said he, “will vouch that those letters contained nothing treasonable? We have but your word, Madam; and you well know that we are at war with Spain, and cannot procure a sight of the originals.”
“Luckily,” replied Anne of Austria, her countenance brightening with a ray of hope, “they have all been read by one whom your Majesty yourself recommended to my friendship. Clara de Hauteford, you have seen them all. Speak! Tell the King the nature of their contents without fear and without favour.”
Mademoiselle de Hauteford advanced from behind the Queen’s chair; and the King, who, it was generally believed, had once passionately loved her, but had met with no return, now fixed his eyes intently upon the pale, beautiful creature, that, scarcely like a being of the earth, glided silently forward and placed herself directly opposite to him. Clara de Hauteford was devotedly attached to the Queen. Whether it sprang from that sense of duty which in general governed all her actions, or whether it was personal attachment, matters little, as the effect was the same, and she would, at no time, have considered her life too great a sacrifice to the interest of her mistress.
She advanced then before the Council, knowing that the happiness, if not the life of Anne of Austria, might depend upon her answer; and clasping her snowy hands together, she raised her eyes towards Heaven, “So help me God at my utmost need!” she said, with a clear, slow, energetic utterance, “no line that I have ever seen of her Majesty’s writing—and I believe I have seen almost all she has written within the last five years—no line that I have seen, ever spoke any thing but the warmest attachment to my Lord the King; nor did any ever contain the slightest allusion to the politics of this kingdom, but were confined entirely to the subject of her domestic life;—nor even then,” she continued, dropping her full blue eyes to the countenance of the King, and fixing them there, with a calm serious determined gaze, which overpowered the glance of the Monarch, and made his eyelid fall—“nor even then did they ever touch upon her domestic sorrows.”
Richelieu saw that the King was moved: he knew also the influence of Mademoiselle de Hauteford, and he instantly resolved upon crushing her by one of those bold acts of power which he had so often attempted with impunity. Nor had he much hesitation in the present instance, knowing that Louis’s superstitious belief in the predictions of the Astrologer had placed the Monarch’s mind completely under his dominion. “Mademoiselle de Hauteford,” said he in a stern voice, “answer me. Have you seen all the letters that the Queen has written to her brother, Philip King of Spain, positively knowing them to be such?”
“So please your Eminence, I have,” replied Mademoiselle de Hauteford.
“Well then,” said Richelieu, rising haughtily from his chair while he spoke, “in so doing you have committed misprision of treason, and are therefore banished from this court and kingdom for ever; and if within sixteen days from this present, you have not removed yourself from the precincts of the realm, you shall be considered guilty of high treason, and arraigned as such, inasmuch as, according to your own confession, you have knowingly and wilfully, after a decree in council against it, concealed and abetted a correspondence between persons within the kingdom of France, and a power declaredly its enemy.”
As the Cardinal uttered his sentence in a firm, deep, commanding voice, the King, who had at first listened to him with a look of surprise, and perhaps of anger, soon began to feel the habitual superiority of Richelieu, and shrunk back into himself, depressed and overawed: the Queen pressed her hand before her eyes; and Chavigni half raised himself, as if to speak, but instantly resumed his seat as his eye met that of the Cardinal.
It was Mademoiselle de Hauteford alone that heard her condemnation without apparent emotion. She merely bowed her head with a look of the most perfect resignation. “Your Eminence’s will shall be obeyed,” she replied, “and may a gracious God protect my innocent Mistress!” Thus saying, she again took her place behind the Queen’s chair, with hardly a change of countenance—always pale, perhaps her face was a little paler but it was scarcely perceptible.
“And now,” continued Richelieu in the same proud manner, assuming at once that power which he in reality possessed,—“and now let us proceed to the original matter, from which we have been diverted to sweep away a butterfly. Your Majesty confesses yourself guilty of treason, in corresponding with the enemies of the kingdom. I hold in my hand a paper to that effect, or something very similar, all drawn from irrefragable evidence upon the subject. This you may as well sign, and on that condition no farther notice shall be taken of the affair; but the matter shall be forgotten as an error in judgment.”
“I have not confessed myself guilty of treason, arrogant Prelate,” replied the Queen, “and I have not corresponded with Philip of Spain as an enemy of France, but as my own brother. Nor will I, while I have life, sign a paper so filled with falsehoods as any one must be that comes from your hand.”
“Your Majesty sees,” said Richelieu, turning to the King, from whom the faint sparks of energy he had lately shown were now entirely gone. “Is there any medium to be kept with a person so convicted of error, and so obstinate in the wrong? And is such a person fit to educate the children of France? Your Majesty has promised that the Dauphin and the Duke of Anjou shall be given into my charge.”
“I have,” said the weak Monarch, “and I will keep my promise.”
“Never! never!” cried the Queen vehemently, “never, while Anne of Austria lives! Oh, my Lord!” she exclaimed, advancing, and casting herself at the feet of the King; with all the overpowering energy of maternal love, “consider that I am their mother!—Rob me not of my only hope,—rob me not of those dear children who have smiled and cheered me through all my sorrows. Oh, Louis! if you have the feelings of a father, if you have the feelings of a man, spare me this!”
The King turned away his head, and Richelieu, gliding behind the throne, placed himself at the Queen’s side. “Sign the paper,” said he, in a low deep tone, “sign the paper, and they shall not be taken from you.”
“Any thing! any thing! but leave me my children!” exclaimed the Queen, taking the pen he offered her. “Have I your promise?”
“You have,” replied he decidedly. “They shall not be taken from you.”
“Well, then!” said Anne of Austria, receiving the paper, “I will sign it; but I call Heaven to witness that I am innocent; and you, gentlemen of the Council, to see that I sign a paper, the contents of which I know not, and part of which is certainly false.” Thus saying, with a rapid hand she wrote her name at the bottom of the page, threw down the pen and quitted the apartment.
The Queen walked slowly, and in silence, to the apartments allotted to her use, without giving way to the various painful feelings that struggled in her bosom; but once arrived within the shelter of her own saloon, she sank into a chair, and burst into a flood of tears. Mademoiselle de Hauteford, who stood beside her, endeavoured in vain for some time to calm her agitation, but at length succeeding in a degree.
“Oh, Clara!” said the Queen, “you have ruined yourself for my sake.”
“I hope, Madam,” replied the young lady, “that I have done my duty, which were enough in itself to reconcile me to my fate; but if I could suppose that I have served your Majesty, I should be more than rewarded for any thing I may undergo.”
“You have served me most deeply on this and every occasion,” answered the Queen; “and the time may come, when the affection of Anne of Austria will not be what it is now,—the destruction of all that possess it.—But why comes Mademoiselle de Beaumont in such haste?” she continued, as Pauline, who had been absent in the gardens of the Palace, and unconscious of all that had lately passed, entered the saloon with hurry and anxiety in her countenance.
“Please your Majesty,” said Pauline, and then suddenly stopped, seeing that the Queen had been weeping. “Proceed, proceed! wild rose,” said Anne of Austria; “they are but tears—drops that signify nothing.”
“As I was walking in the gardens but now,” continued Pauline, “a little peasant boy came up to me, and asked if I could bring him to speech of your Majesty. I was surprised at his request, and asked him what was his business; when he told me that he brought you a letter from the Bastille. This seemed so important that I made bold to take him into the Palace by the private gate, and concealed him in my apartments, till I had informed you of it all.”
“You did right, Pauline, you did right,” replied the Queen. “It must surely be news from De Blenau. Bring the boy hither directly—not by the anteroom, but by the inner apartments—You, Clara, station Laporte at the top of the staircase, to see that no one approaches.”
Pauline flew to execute the Queen’s commands, and in a few minutes a clatter was heard in the inner chamber, not at all unlike the noise produced by that most unfortunate animal a cat, when some mischievous boys adorn her feet with walnut-shells.
The moment after, the door opened, and Pauline appeared leading in a fine curly-headed boy of about ten years old. He was dressed in hodden grey, with a broad leathern belt round his waist, in which appeared a small axe and a knife, while his feet, displaying no stockings, but with the skin tanned to the colour of Russia leather, were thrust into a pair of unwieldy sabots, or wooden-shoes, which had caused the clatter aforesaid.
“Take off his sabots, take off his sabots,” cried the Queen, putting her hands to her ears. “They will alarm the whole house.”
“Dame oui!” cried the boy, slipping his feet out of their incumbrances. “J’avons oublié, et vous aussi, Mademoiselle,” turning to Pauline, who, anxious to hear of De Blenau, would have let him come in, if he had been shod like a horse.
The little messenger now paused for a moment, then having glanced his eye over the ladies at the other end of the room, as if to ascertain to which he was to deliver his credentials, advanced straight to the Queen, and falling down upon both his knees, tendered her a sealed packet.
“Well, my boy,” said Anne of Austria, taking the letter, “whom does this come from?”
“My father, the Woodman of Mantes,” replied the boy, “told me to give it into the Queen’s own hand; and when I had done so, to return straight to him and not to wait, for fear of being discovered.”
“And how do you know that I am the Queen?” asked Anne of Austria, who too often suffered her mind to be distracted from matters of grave importance by trifling objects of amusement. “That lady is the Queen,” she continued, pointing to Madame de Beaumont, and playing upon the boy’s simplicity.
“No, no,” said Charles, the Woodman’s son, “she stands and you sit; and besides, you told them to take off my sabots, as if you were used to order all about you.”
“Well,” rejoined the Queen, “you are right, my boy: go back to your father, and as a token that you have given the letter to the Queen, carry him back that ring;” and she took a jewel from her finger, and put it into the boy’s hand. “Mademoiselle de Beaumont,” she continued, “will you give this boy into the charge of Laporte, bidding him take him from the Palace by the most private way, and not to leave him till he is safe out of Chantilly.”
According to Anne of Austria’s command, Pauline conducted Charles to the head of the staircase, at which had been stationed Laporte, the confidential servant of the Queen, keeping watch to give notice of any one’s approach. To him she delivered her charge with the proper directions, and then returned to the saloon, not a little anxious to learn the contents of De Blenau’s letter. I will not try to explain her sensations. Let those who have been parted from some one that they love, who have been anxious for his safety, and terrified for his danger, who have waited in fear and agony for tidings long delayed—let them call up all that they felt, and tinging it with that shade of romance, which might be expected in the mind of a young, feeling, imaginative, Languedocian girl of 1643, they will have something like a picture of Pauline’s sensations, without my helping them a bit.
“Come hither, my wild rose,” said the Queen, as she saw her enter. “Here is a letter from De Blenau, full of sad news indeed. His situation is perilous in the extreme; and though I am the cause of all, I do not know how to aid him.”
Pauline turned pale, but cast down her eyes, and remained without speaking.
“Surely, Pauline,” said the Queen, misinterpreting her silence, “after the explanations I gave you some days ago, you can have no farther doubt of De Blenau’s conduct?”
“Oh no indeed! Madam,” replied Pauline, vehemently, “and now that I feel and know how very wrong those suspicions were, I would fain do something to atone for having formed them.”
“Thou canst do nothing, my poor flower,” said the Queen, with a melancholy smile. “However, read that letter, and thou wilt see that something must soon be done to save him, or his fate is sealed. De Blenau must be informed that I have acknowledged writing to my brother, and all the particulars connected therewith; for well I know that Richelieu will not be contented with my confession, but will attempt to wring something more from him, even by the peine forte et dure.”
Pauline read, and re-read the letter, and each time she did so, the colour came and went in her cheek, and at every sentence she raised her large dark eyes to the Queen, as if inquiring what could be done for him. Each of the Queen’s ladies was silent for a time, and then each proposed some plan, which was quickly discussed and rejected, as either too dangerous, or totally impracticable. One proposed to bribe the Governor of the Bastille to convey a letter to De Blenau, but that was soon rejected: another proposed to send Laporte, the Queen’s valet de chambre, to try and gain admittance; but Laporte had once been confined there himself, and was well known to all the officers of the prison: and another mentioned Seguin, Anne of Austria’s surgeon; but he also was not only too well known, but it appeared, from what De Blenau had informed the Queen of his conference with Richelieu, that the very words of the message which had been sent by him on the night of the young Count’s rencontre with the robbers, had been communicated to the Cardinal; and the whole party forgot that Louise, the soubrette, had been present when it was delivered.
In the mean while, Pauline remained profoundly silent, occupied by many a bitter reflection, while a thousand confused schemes flitted across her mind, like bubbles floating on a stream, and breaking as soon as they were looked upon. At length, however, she started, as if some more feasible plan presented itself to her thoughts——“I will go!” exclaimed she,—“Please your Majesty, I will go.”
“You, Pauline!” said the Queen, “you, my poor girl! You know not the difficulties of such an undertaking. What say you, Madame de Beaumont?”
“That I am pleased, Madam, to see my child show forth the spirit of her race,” replied the Marchioness. “Nor do I doubt of her success; for sure I am Pauline would not propose a project which had no good foundation.”
“Then say how you intend to manage it,” said the Queen, with little faith in the practicability of Pauline’s proposal. “I doubt me much, my sweet girl, they will never let you into the Bastille. Their hearts are as hard as the stones of the prison that they keep, and they will give you no ingress for love of your bright eyes.”
“I do not intend to make that a plea,” replied Pauline, smiling in youthful confidence; “but I will borrow one of my maid’s dresses, and doubtless shall look as like a soubrette as any one. Claude directs us, here, to ask at the gate for Philip the woodman of Mantes. Now he will most likely be able to procure me admission; and if not, I can but give the message to him and be sent away again.”
“Oh, no, no!” cried the Queen, “give no messages but in the last extremity. How do we know that this Woodman might not betray us, and raise Richelieu’s suspicions still more? If you can see De Blenau, well—— I will give you a letter for him; but if not, only tell the Woodman to inform him, that I have confessed all. If that reach the tyrant’s ears, it can do no harm. Your undertaking is bold, Pauline: think you your courage will hold out?”
The boundaries between emulation and jealousy are very frail, and Madame de Beaumont, who regarded the services which Mademoiselle de Hauteford had rendered the Queen with some degree of envy, now answered for her daughter’s courage with more confidence than perhaps she felt. But Pauline’s plan yet required great arrangement, even to give it the probability of success. With a thousand eyes continually upon their actions, it was no very easy matter even to quit Chantilly without calling down that observation and inquiry which would have been fatal to their project.
To obviate this difficulty, however, it was agreed that Pauline should accompany Mademoiselle de Hauteford, whose sentence of banishment required her immediate presence in Paris, for the arrangement of her affairs. On their arrival in that city, the two ladies were to take up their abode with the old Marchioness de Senecy, one of the Queen’s most devoted adherents, and to determine their future proceedings by the information they received upon the spot.
The greatest rapidity, however, was necessary to any hope of success, and neither Pauline nor Mademoiselle de Hauteford lost any time in their preparations. The Queen’s letter to De Blenau was soon written. Pauline borrowed from her maid Louise, the full dress of a Languedoc peasant, provided herself with a considerable sum of money, that no means might be left untried, and having taken leave of her mother, whose bold counsels tended to raise her spirits and uphold her resolution, she placed herself in the chaise roulante beside Mademoiselle de Hauteford, buoyed up with youthful confidence and enthusiasm.
It was rather an anxious moment, however, as they passed the gates of the Palace, which by some accident were shut. This caused a momentary delay, and several of the Cardinal’s guard (for Richelieu assumed that of a bodyguard amongst other marks of royalty) gathered round the vehicle with the idle curiosity of an unemployed soldiery. Pauline’s heart beat fast, but the moment after she was relieved by the appearance of the old concierge, or porter, who threw open the gates, and the carriage rolled out without any question being asked. Her mind, however, was not wholly relieved till they were completely free of the town of Chantilly, and till the carriage slowly mounting the first little hill, took a slight turn to avoid a steeper ascent, showing them the towers of the chateau and the course of the road they had already passed, without any human form that could afford subject for alarm.
Pauline, seeing that they were not followed, gave herself up to meditations of the future, firmly believing that their departure had entirely escaped the observation of the Cardinal. This, however, was not the case. He had been early informed that one of the Queen’s carriages was in preparation to carry some of the ladies of honour to Paris; but concluding that it was nothing more than the effect of that sentence of banishment which he had himself pronounced against Mademoiselle de Hauteford, he suffered Pauline and her companion to depart without inquiry or obstruction; although some of the many tools of his power had shut the Palace gates, as if by accident, till his decision was known.
As the carriage rolled on, and Pauline reflected in silence upon the task she had undertaken, the bright colouring of the moment’s enthusiasm faded away; the mists in which hope had concealed the rocks and precipices around her path, no longer intercepted her view, and the whole difficulties and dangers to which she exposed herself, presented themselves one after another to her sight. But the original motives still remained in full force. Her deep romantic attachment to De Blenau, her sense of duty to the Queen, and that generosity of purpose which would have led her at any time to risk her life to save the innocent—much more the innocent and loved—of these, nothing could deprive her; and these kept up her resolution, although the very interest which her heart took in the success of her endeavour, made her magnify the dangers, and tremble at the thought of failure.
Which shows what they did with De Blenau in the Bastille, and what he himself did to get out of it.
AS a young member of what is technically called the lower house, or otherwise the House of Commons, when first he goes down after his election to take the oaths and his seat, his heart fluttering both with pride and timidity, most conscientiously resolves to be independent in all his opinions, and determines heroically to have no party: so had I, when I entered upon the arduous duties of giving this work to the public in its present form, determined heroically to have no hero; but to do equal justice to all the several characters, and let each reader find a hero for himself.
However, pursuing the course of the abovementioned young member of the Commons House of Parliament, who soon begins to perceive, that it is as easy to eat oysters and brown sugar, as to vote with a party to whom he has a natural antipathy; or for the needle to fly from the magnet as for him to keep aloof from that faction to which individual interests, long-indulged habits, and early prejudices attach him; so, I soon began to find that my own feelings more particularly inclining me to the Count de Blenau, I unconsciously made him the hero of my tale, dilated on his history, enlarged upon his character, quitted him with regret, and returned to him with pleasure.
At present, however, the course of my tale naturally conducts me once more to the gloomy walls of the Bastille, to give some account of the circumstances which led to the latter events of the last chapter; and consequently I feel no hesitation in once more taking up the history of my Hero.
The sleep of the Count de Blenau was fully as sound within the Bastille as ever it had been in his own hotel at St. Germain: nor was it till the day was risen high that he awoke, on the first morning after his imprisonment.
It was some moments before he could remember his precise situation, so profound had been his sleep. But the unpleasant parts of our fate soon recall themselves to our senses, though we may forget them for a time; and the narrow windows, the iron door, and the untapestried walls, speedily brought back to De Blenau’s recollection many a painful particular, to which sleep had given a temporary oblivion.
On rising, he missed in some degree the attendance to which he was accustomed; but nevertheless he contrived to get through the business of the toilet, without much difficulty; although no page was ready at his call, no groom prepared to adjust every part of his apparel. He then proceeded into the outer chamber, which he mentally termed his saloon, and would willingly have ordered his breakfast, but his apartments afforded no means of communicating with those below, except by the iron door already mentioned; the secret of which was of too great importance to be lost upon so trifling an occasion.
No remedy presented itself but patience, and proceeding to the window, which opened at will to admit the air, but which was strongly secured on the outside with massy iron bars, he endeavoured to amuse the time by looking into the court below, in which he could occasionally catch a glimpse of some of his fellow-prisoners, appearing and disappearing, as they sometimes emerged into the open space within his sight, and sometimes retired into the part, which the thickness of the walls in which the window was placed, hid from his view.
They were now apparently taking their morning’s walk, and enjoying the privilege of conversing with each other—a privilege which De Blenau began to value more highly than ever he had done. Amongst those that he beheld were many whom he recognised, as having either known them personally, or having seen them at the court, or with the army; and the strange assemblage of all different parties which met his eye in the court-yard of the Bastille, fully convinced him, that under the administration of a man who lived in constant fear that his ill-gotten power would be snatched from him, safety was to be found in no tenets and in no station.
Here he beheld some that had been of the party of Mary de Medicis, and some who had been the avowed followers of Richelieu himself; some that the Minister suspected of being too much favoured by the King, and some, as in his own case, who had been attached to the Queen. One he saw who was supposed to have favoured the Huguenots in France, and one that had assisted the Catholic party in Germany.
“Well,” thought De Blenau, “I am but one out of the many, and whatever plan I had pursued, most probably I should have found my way here somehow. Wealth and influence, in despotic governments, are generally like the plumes of the ostrich, which often cause her to be hunted down, but will not help her to fly.”
Whilst engaged in such reflections, De Blenau heard the bolts of the door undrawn, and the Governor of the prison entered, followed by his servant loaded with the various requisites for so substantial a meal as a breakfast of that period. De Blenau and the Governor saluted each other with every outward form of civility; and the Count, perceiving that his custodier still lingered after the servant had disposed the various articles upon the table and had taken his departure, luckily remembered that this was one of the jours maigres of which he had heard, and invited his companion to partake of his morning meal. The Governor agreed to the proposal sans cérémonie, and having done ample justice to the dish of stewed partridges, which formed the principal ornament of the table, he himself finished a bottle of the celebrated wine of Suresnes, which is one of the things now lost to the bons vivants of Paris.
De Blenau was not so much importuned by hunger as to envy the Governor the very large share he appropriated of the viands before him; and he had plenty of leisure to remark, that his companion performed his feats of mastication with a wonderful degree of velocity. But the Governor had a reason for thus wishing to hurry, what was to him a very agreeable occupation, to its conclusion; for he had scarcely poured out the last goblet of his wine, and was still wiping and folding up his case-knife, (which, by the way, was the constant companion of high and low in those days, and the only implement they had for cutting their food,) when the door opened, and a servant appeared, giving the Governor a significant nod, which was answered by a sign of the same kind.
Upon this the man retired, and the door being closed, the well-filled official turned to De Blenau,—“I did not tell you before, Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “for fear of taking away your appetite; but we have had a message this morning from Monsieur Lafemas,—you have heard of Monsieur Lafemas, doubtless?—importing that he would soon be here to put some questions to you. Now, Monsieur de Blenau, you are a gentleman for whom I have a great regard, and I will give you a hint which may be of service to you. If in the examination which you are about to undergo, there be any questions to which you do not find it convenient to reply, do not refuse to answer them, but speak always in such a manner as to bear two interpretations, by which means I have known many a prisoner avoid the torture, and sometimes go on from examination to examination, till they gave him his liberty from pure weariness.”
De Blenau bowed, already determined as to the course he should pursue. “When do you expect this worthy Judge?” he demanded. “I am perfectly unconcerned as to his coming, let me assure you, though I feel obliged by your consideration for my appetite.”
“He is here now, Sir,” replied the Governor; “we had better, if you please, join him in the audience-hall. That servant came to announce his arrival.”
“I will follow you instantly,” replied the Count; upon which the Governor rose and opened the door.
The moment De Blenau had passed out, the guard, who had been stationed at the head of the stairs, followed at the distance of a couple of paces, while the Governor led the way. In this order they proceeded to the inner court, which they had to pass before they could reach the audience-chamber. This open space was still filled by the prisoners, who, glad of the little liberty allowed them, seldom retired to their cells, except when obliged by the regulations of the prison. The moment De Blenau appeared in the court, there was a slight stir amongst its tenants, and the question of, “Who is he? who is he?” circulated rapidly among them.
“It is the Count de Blenau, by St. Louis!” exclaimed a deep voice, which De Blenau remembered to have heard somewhere before; but, though on looking round he saw several persons that he knew, he could not fix upon any one in particular as the one who had spoken.
He had not time, however, for more than a momentary glance, and was obliged to pass on to the door of the audience-hall, which opened into a little narrow passage leading from the court. Here De Blenau paused for an instant to collect his thoughts, and then followed the Governor, who had already entered.
The audience-hall of the Bastille was a large oblong chamber, dimly lighted by two high Gothic windows, which looked into the outer court. The scanty gleam of daylight which would have thus entered, had the space been open, was impeded by the dust and dirt of many a century, and by the thick crossing of the leaden framework, while its progress into the hall itself was also farther obstructed by several heavy columns which supported the high pointed arches of the roof.
This roof, the apartment having been originally intended for the chapel, would have afforded a relief to the dullness of the rest by its beautiful proportions, and the highly finished tracery with which it was adorned, had the eye been able to reach it; but the rays, which from the causes above mentioned were barely enough to illuminate the lower part of the hall, were lost before they could attain its height, leaving it in that profound obscurity, which cast a double gloom upon the space below.
The pavement of this melancholy hall was damp and decayed, many of the stones having strayed from their bed of mortar, and become vagrant about the apartment; and the furniture, if it might be so called, far from filling it, served only to show its size and emptiness. At the farther extremity was a long table, at the end of which, in a chair somewhat elevated, sat the Judge Lafemas, with a Clerk at a desk below him, and two or three Exempts standing round about.
Near the end next De Blenau was another chair, which he conceived to be placed for his use; while between two of the pillars, sitting on a curious machine, the use of which De Blenau at once suspected, appeared an ill-favoured muscular old man, whose lowering brow and doggedness of aspect seemed to speak of many a ruthless deed.
As the Count entered, the door closed after him with a loud clang; and advancing to the table, he took his seat in the vacant chair, while the Governor placed himself at a little distance between him and the Judge.
“Well, Monsieur de Blenau,” said Lafemas in that sweet mild tone which he always assumed when not irritated by the taunts of Chavigni, “This is the last place where I could have wished to meet a nobleman whose general character has always engaged my most affectionate esteem.”
De Blenau knew Lafemas to be one of the meanest and most viperous of the Cardinal’s tools, and not feeling much moved to exchange courtesies with him, he merely acknowledged the Judge’s salutation by a silent bow, while the other proceeded: “I have requested the pleasure of your society for a space, in order to ask you a few questions; your reply to which will, doubtless, soon procure your liberation from this unpleasant place.”
“I trust so, Sir,” replied the Count, “as the detention of an innocent person must occasion fully as much discredit to his Majesty’s Government, as it does inconvenience to the person himself.”
“You are quite right, you are quite right,” rejoined the sweet-tongued Judge. “Indeed, my very object in coming is to obtain such answers from you as will convince the Cardinal de Richelieu, who, though a profound minister, is somewhat suspicious withal,—to convince him, I say, that you are innocent; of which, on my conscience, and as I believe in the Saviour, I have no doubt myself.—In the first place, then,” he continued, “tell me as a friend, have you any acquaintance in Brussels?”
“I have!” replied De Blenau decidedly.
“That is honourable,—that is candid,” said the Judge. “I told you, Monsieur le Gouverneur, that we should have no difficulty, and that Monsieur de Blenau would enable me easily to establish his innocence.—Pray do you correspond with these friends,” he continued, “and by what means?”
“I do correspond with them; but seldom: and then by any means that occur.”
“Monsieur de Blenau,” exclaimed Lafemas, “I am enchanted with this frankness; but be a little more specific about the means. If you have no particular objection to confide in me, mention any channel that you call to mind, by which you have sent letters to the Low Countries.”
De Blenau felt somewhat disgusted with the sweet and friendly manner of a man whose deeds spoke him as cruel and as bloody-minded as a famished tiger; and unwilling to be longer mocked with soft words, he replied, “Sometimes by the King’s courier, Sir; sometimes by the Cardinal’s: and once I remember having sent one by your cousin De Merceau, but I believe that letter never reached its destination; for you must recollect that De Merceau was hanged by Don Francisco de Mello, for ripping open the bag, and purloining the despatches.”
“We have nothing to do with that, my dear Count,” said Lafemas, struggling to maintain his placidity of demeanour.—“The next thing I have to inquire is,"—and he looked at a paper he held in his hand: “Have you ever conveyed any letters to the Low Countries for any one else?”
De Blenau answered in the affirmative; and the Judge proceeded with a series of questions, very similar to those which had been asked by Richelieu himself, artfully striving to entangle the prisoner by means of his own admissions, so as to force him into farther confessions by the impossibility of receding. But beyond a certain point De Blenau would not proceed.
“Monsieur Lafemas,” said he in a calm firm tone, “I perceive that you are going into questions which have already been asked me by his Eminence the Cardinal Prime Minister. The object in doing so is evidently to extort from me some contradiction which may criminate myself; and therefore henceforward I will reply to no such questions whatsoever. The Cardinal is in possession of my answers; and if you want them, you must apply to him.”
“You mistake entirely, my dear Count,” said Lafemas; “on my salvation, my only object is to serve you. You have already acknowledged that you have forwarded letters from the Queen,—why not now inform me to whom those letters were addressed? If those letters were not of a treasonable nature, why did she not send them by one of her own servants?”
“When a Queen of France is not allowed the common attendants which a simple gentlewoman can command, she may often be glad to use the servants and services of her friends. My own retinue, Sir, trebles that which the Queen has ever possessed at St. Germain’s. But, without going into these particulars, your question is at once replied to by reminding you, that I am her Majesty’s Chamberlain, and therefore her servant.”
“Without there were something wrong, Monsieur de Blenau,” said Lafemas, “you could have no objection to state whether you have or have not conveyed some letters from her Majesty to Don John of Austria, Don Francisco de Mello, or King Philip of Spain. It is very natural for a Queen to write to her near relations, surely!”
“I have already said,” replied De Blenau, “that I shall reply to no such questions, the object of which is alone to entangle me.”
“You know not what you are exposing yourself to,” rejoined the Judge; “there are means within this prison which would easily compel an answer.”
“None,” replied De Blenau, firmly. “My resolution is taken, and no power on earth can shake it.”
“Really, Monsieur de Blenau, it would hurt me to the heart to leave you to the dreadful fate which your mistaken determination is likely to call upon you. I could weep, truly I could weep, to think of what you are calling upon your own head;” and the Judge glanced his eye towards the machine, which we have already noticed, and from which the old man rose up, as if preparing for his task.
“You mean the torture?” said De Blenau, looking at it without a change of countenance. “But let me tell you, Monsieur Lafemas, that you dare not order it to a man of my rank, without an express warrant for the purpose; and, even if you had such authority, not all the torture in the world would wring one word from me. Ask that instrument of tyranny, Sir,” and he pointed to the Executioner,—“ask him how the noble Caply died; and so would De Blenau also.”
Lafemas looked at the Governor, and the Governor at the Executioner, and so round. One of the dreadful secrets of the Bastille had evidently escaped beyond those precincts to which they were fearfully confined; no one could divine how this had occurred, and each suspected the other. A temporary silence ensued, and then Lafemas proceeded:
“The torture! no, Monsieur de Blenau: God forbid that I should think of ordering such a thing! But let me advise you to answer; for I must, of course, report your refusal to the Cardinal Prime Minister, and you know that he is not likely to consider either your rank or your fortune, but will, in all probability, order you the Question ordinary and extraordinary instantly.”
“The guilt be his then!” said De Blenau. “I have already told you my resolution, Sir; act upon it as you think fit.”
Lafemas seemed at a loss, and a whispering consultation took place between him and the Secretary, who seemed to urge more vigorous measures than the Judge himself thought proper to pursue; for their conference was terminated by Lafemas exclaiming in a tone not sufficiently low to escape De Blenau’s ear, “I dare not, I tell you—I dare not—I have no orders.—Monsieur de Blenau,” he continued aloud, “you may now retire, and I must report your answers to the Cardinal. But let me advise you, as a sincere friend, to be prepared with a reply to the questions you have now refused to answer, before we next meet; for by that time I shall have received his Eminence’s commands, which, I fear, will be more severe than my heart could wish.”
De Blenau made no reply, but withdrew, escorted as before; and it were needless to deny, that, notwithstanding the coolness with which he had borne his examination, and the fortitude with which he was prepared to repel the worst that could be inflicted, his heart beat high as the door of the audience-hall closed behind him, and he looked forward to returning to his apartments with more pleasure than a captive usually regards the place of his confinement.
The many agitating circumstances which had passed since, had completely banished from his thoughts the voice which he had heard pronounce his name, on the first time of his crossing the court; but as he returned, his eye fell upon the form of a tall, strong man, standing under the archway; and he instantly recognized the Woodman of the forest of Mantes.
De Blenau had spoken to him a thousand times in his various hunting-excursions, and he could not help being astonished to meet him in such a place, little dreaming that he himself was the cause. “What, in the name of Heaven!” thought he, “can that man have done to merit confinement here? Surely, Richelieu, who affects to be an eagle of the highest flight, might stoop on nobler prey than that.”
As these thoughts crossed his mind, he passed by the foot of the little tower, containing the staircase which communicated with his apartments by the iron door in the inner chamber. This had evidently been long disused; and on remembering the position of the two chambers which he occupied, he conceived that they must have been at one time quite distinct, with a separate entrance to each, the one being arrived at by the turret, and the other by the chief staircase. He had, however, only time to take a casual glance, and wisely refrained from making that very apparent; for the Governor, who walked beside him, kept his eyes almost constantly fixed upon him, as if to prevent any communication even by a sign with the other prisoners.
On arriving at his chamber, the Governor allowed him to pass in alone, and having fastened the door, returned to Lafemas, leaving De Blenau to meditate over his situation in solitude. The first pleasure of having escaped from immediate danger having subsided, there was nothing very cheering to contemplate in his position. His fate, though postponed, seemed inevitable. Richelieu, he knew, was no way scrupulous; and the only thing which honour could permit him to do, was to defend the Queen’s secret with his life.
The Queen herself indeed might relieve him from his difficulty, if he could find any way of communicating with her. But in looking round for the means, absolute impossibility seemed to present itself on all sides. In vain he sought for expedients; his mind suggested none that a second thought confirmed. He once contemplated inducing the Governor to forward a letter by the temptation of a large bribe; but a moment’s reflection showed him that it was a thousand to one that the smooth-spoken officer both accepted his bribe and betrayed his trust.
Many other plans were rejected in a like manner, from a conviction of their impracticability, till at length a vague thought of gaining an interview with the Woodman of Mantes, and, if possible, engaging him to bribe some of the inferior officers of the prison, crossed De Blenau’s mind; and he was still endeavouring to regulate his ideas on the subject, when the bolts were once more withdrawn, and the Governor again entered the apartment.
“Let me congratulate you, Monsieur de Blenau,” said he, with a look of sincere pleasure, which probably sprang more from the prospect of continued gain to himself than any abstract gratification in De Blenau’s safety. “Monsieur Lafemas is gone, and as the Cardinal is at Chantilly, you will be safe for three or four days at least, as nothing can be decided till his Eminence returns.”
De Blenau well knew how to estimate the kindness of his friend the Governor; but though he put its proper value upon it, and no more, he felt the necessity of striving to make his interested meanness act the part of real friendship.
“Well, Monsieur le Gouverneur,” said he, assuming a cheerful air, “I suppose, then, that I shall remain with you a day or two longer; nor should I, indeed, care so much for the confinement, where I am so well treated, if I had some one to wait upon me whom I have been accustomed to.”
“I do not know how that could be arranged,” replied the Governor thoughtfully; “I would do any thing to serve you, Monsieur de Blenau, consistent with my duty, but this is quite contrary to my orders; and if I were to allow you one of my own servants, it would put me completely in his power.”
“Oh, that would not do at all,” said De Blenau; “but are there not some of the inferior prisoners—” The Governor’s brow darkened.—“Of course,” continued the Count, “you would have to pay them for their trouble—and I, of course, would reimburse you. If you think that three hundred crowns would induce one of them to wait on me for the time I am here, I would willingly pay the money into your hands, and you could make all the necessary arrangements for the purpose.”
The countenance of the Governor gradually cleared up as De Blenau spoke, like a sheltered lake that, after having been agitated for a moment by some unwonted breeze, soon relapses into its calm tranquillity, when that which disturbed it has passed away. The idea of appropriating, with such unquestioned facility, the greater part of three hundred crowns, was the sun which thus speedily dispersed the clouds upon his brow: and he mused for a moment, calculating shrewdly the means of attaining his object.
“The worst of it is,” said he at length, “that we have no inferior prisoners. They are all prisoners of State in the Bastille—— But stay,” he added, a felicitous idea crossing his mind, “I remember there was a man brought here this morning by Chavigni’s people, and they told me to give him all possible liberty, and employ him in the prison if I could.”
“That will just do then,” said De Blenau, inwardly praying that it might be the honest Woodman of Mantes. “He can visit me here occasionally during the day, to see if I have need of him, and the guard at the door can take good care that I do not follow him out, which is all that your duty demands.”
“Of course, of course,” replied the Governor; “it is your safe custody alone which I have to look to: and farther, I am ordered to give you every convenience and attention, which warrants me in allowing you an attendant at least. But here comes your dinner, Sir.”
“Dinner!” exclaimed De Blenau, “it surely is not yet noon.” But so it proved: the time had passed more quickly than he thought: nor indeed had he any reason to regret the appearance of dinner, for the substantial and luxurious meal which was served up at his expense on that jour maigre did not prove any bad auxiliary in overcoming whatever scruple yet lingered about the mind of Monsieur le Gouverneur. At every mouthful of Becasse, his countenance became more placable and complacent, and while he was busily occupied in sopping the last morsels of his Dorade in the sauce au cornichons, and conveying them to the capacious aperture which stood open to receive them, our prisoner obtained his full consent that the person he had mentioned should have egress and regress of the apartment; for which liberty, however, De Blenau was obliged to pay down the sum of three hundred crowns under the specious name of wages to the attendant.
This arrangement, and the dinner, came to a conclusion much about the same time; and the Governor, who had probably been engaged with De Blenau’s good cheer much longer than was quite consistent with his other duties, rose and retired, to seek the inferior prisoner whose name he could not remember, but whom he piously resolved to reward with a crown per diem, thinking that such unparalleled liberality ought to be recorded in letters of gold.
In regard to De Blenau, the Governor looked upon him as the goose with the golden eggs; but more prudent than the boy in the fable, he resolved to prolong his life to the utmost of his power, so long, at least, as he continued to produce that glittering ore which possessed such wonderful attraction in his eyes. De Blenau, however, was not the goose he thought him; and though he waited with some impatience to see if the person on whom so much might depend, were or were not his honest friend the Woodman, yet his thoughts were deeply engaged in revolving every means by which the cupidity of the Governor might be turned to his own advantage.
At length the bolts were undrawn, and the prisoner, fixing his eyes upon the door, beheld a little old man enter, with withered cheeks and sunken eyes; a greasy night-cap on his head, and a large knife suspended by the side of a long thin sword, which sometimes trailed upon the ground, and sometimes with reiterated blows upon the tendons of his meagre shanks, seemed to reproach them for the bent and cringing posture in which they carried the woodcock-like body that surmounted them.
“Well, Sir!” said De Blenau, not a little disappointed with this apparition; “are you the person whom the Governor has appointed to wait upon me?”
“Oui, Monsieur,” said the little man, laying his hand upon his heart, with a profound inclination of his head, in which he contrived to get that organ completely out of sight, and, like a tortoise, to have nothing but his back visible. “Oui, Monsieur; I am Cuisinier Vivandier, that is to say, formerly Vivandier; at present, Cuisinier Aubergiste ici à la porte de la Bastille, tout près. I have the honour to furnish the dinner for Monseigneur, and I have come for the plates.”
“Oh, is that all!” cried De Blenau; “take them, take them, my good friend, and begone.”
The little man vowed that Monseigneur did him too much honour, and gathering up his dishes with admirable dexterity, he held the heap with his left arm, reserving his right to lay upon his heart, in which position he addressed another profound bow to De Blenau, and left the apartment. The prisoner now waited some time, getting more and more impatient as the day wore on. At length, however, the door once more opened, and Philip the woodman himself appeared.
Between Philip and the young Count there was of course much to be explained, which, requiring no explanation to the reader, shall not be here recapitulated. Every circumstance, however, that Philip told, whether of his writing the letter to inform him of the plots of Chavigni and Lafemas, or of the manner and apparent reason of his being dragged from his cottage to the Bastille, concurred to give De Blenau greater confidence in his new ally; and perhaps Philip himself, from having suffered a good deal on De Blenau’s account, felt but the greater inclination to hazard still more. Between two persons so inclined, preliminaries are soon adjusted: nor had De Blenau time to proceed with diplomatic caution, even had he had reason to suspect the sincerity of the Woodman. The dangers of his situation admitted no finesse; and, overleaping all ceremonies, he at once demanded if Philip would and could convey a letter from him to the Queen.
Of his willingness, the Woodman said, there was no doubt; and after a moment’s thought he added, that he had reason to hope that opportunity also would be afforded him. “It will be dangerous,” said he, “but I think I can do it.”
“Tell me how, good friend,” demanded De Blenau, “and depend upon it, whatever risks you run on my account, whether I live or die, you will be rewarded.”
“I want no reward, Sir,” answered Philip, “but a good cause and a good conscience; and I am sure, if I serve you, I am as well engaged as if I were cutting all the fagots in Mantes. But my plan is this: They tell me, that my children shall always be allowed to see me. Now I know my boy Charles, who is as active as a picvert, will not be long before he follows me. He will be here before nightfall, I am sure, and he shall take your letter to the Queen.”
De Blenau remained silent for a moment. “Was it your son who brought your letter to me?” demanded he. The Woodman assented; and the Count continued: “He was a shrewd boy, then. At all events, it must be risked. Wait, I will write, and depend upon you.”
The Woodman, however, urged that if he stayed so long, suspicion might be excited; and De Blenau suffered him to depart, desiring him to return in an hour, when the letter would be ready. During his absence, the prisoner wrote that epistle which we have already seen delivered. In it he told his situation, and the nature of the questions which had been asked him by Lafemas. He hinted also that his fate was soon likely to be decided; and desired, that any communication which it might be necessary to make to him, might be conveyed through the Woodman of Mantes.