Showing what it is to be a day after the Fair; with sundry other matters, which the reader cannot fully comprehend without reading them.
HAVING now left the Woodman as unhappy as we could wish, and De Blenau very little better off than he was before; we must proceed with Pauline, and see what we can do for her in the same way.
It has been already said that, in the hurry of her flight, she struck her foot against a stone, and fell. This is an unpleasant accident at all times, and more especially when one is running away; but Pauline suffered it not to interrupt her flight one moment longer than necessary. Finding that some unexpected obstacle had delayed her pursuer as well as herself, she was upon her feet in a moment; and leaving him to arrange his difference with Monsieur Chatpilleur in the best way he could, she flew on towards the Rue Saint Antoine, without stopping to thank her deliverer; and, indeed, without knowing that the good aubergiste, taking a sincere interest in her fate, had, at the hour appointed, waited at the door of his auberge till he saw her enter the Bastille, and then, from some undefined feeling that all would not go right, had watched anxiously to see her safe out again.
The interest not being reciprocal, Pauline had forgot all about the aubergiste; and only seeing that some one obstructed her pursuer, she fled, as I have said before, to the Rue Saint Antoine. She passed Jacques Chatpilleur’s little auberge, without any exchange of sentiment, even with the Sanglier Gourmand, and darted by the boutique of a passementier with the same celerity. The next shop was a marchand de broderie et de dentelle, with a little passage, or cul de sac, between it and the following house, which was occupied by a brocanteur, both which trades requiring daylight in aid of their operations, were at that hour firmly closed with bolt and bar, nor shed one solitary ray to light the passenger along the streets.
Just as she had come opposite to the first of these, Pauline found some one seize her robe behind, and the next minute a large Spanish cloak was thrown over her head, while a gigantic pair of arms embracing her waist, raised her from the ground, and bore her along the street. Naturally conceiving that she was in the power of some of her pursuers from the Bastille, Pauline did not perceive, in the dreadful agitation of the moment, that she was carried in a different direction; and, giving herself up for lost, she yielded to her fate without scream or cry. Whoever it was that held her, carried her like a feather; but after striding along through several turnings, he paused, placed her on the ground, and still holding the cloak over her head with one hand, seemed to open a door with the other. The next moment he raised her again, though in a different position, and carried her up what was evidently a small winding staircase, at the top of which he again opened a door, where, even through the cloak, Pauline could perceive that they had entered some place which contained a powerful light. The moment the door was open, some one exclaimed, “It is her! Oh Jesu! yes, it is her!” in a voice which sounded so like that of her maid Louise that Pauline was more than ever bewildered. The person who had carried her, now placed her in a chair, and taking the additional security of tying the cloak over her head, communicated for a few minutes with the other person in whispers; after which Pauline fancied that some one quitted the room. The covering was then removed from her eyes, and she found herself in a small, meanly-furnished apartment, whose only occupant, besides herself, was a handsome man, of very gigantic proportions, and of that sort of daring aspect which smacked a little of the bravo. He was well dressed in a pourpoint of green lustring, braided with gold lace, slightly tarnished; the haut-de-chausses was of the same, tied down the side with red ribbons; and the cloak which he removed from Pauline’s head seemed to form a part of the dress, though he had deprived himself of it for the moment, to answer the purpose in which we have seen it employed. On the whole, he was a good-looking cavalier, though there was a certain air of lawlessness in his countenance and mien which made Pauline shrink.
“Nay, do not be afraid, Mademoiselle,” said he, with a strong Norman accent: “Point de danger, point de danger;” and he strove to reassure her to the best of his power. He possessed no great eloquence, however, at least of the kind calculated to calm a lady’s fears; and the only thing which tended to give Pauline any relief, was the manifest respect with which he addressed her, standing cap in hand, and reiterating that no harm was intended or could happen to her.
She listened without attending, too much frightened to believe his words to their full extent, and striving to gain from the objects round about some more precise knowledge of her situation. She was evidently not in the Bastille; for the door of the room, instead of offering to her view bolts and bars, of such complicated forms that, like the mousetrap, they would have puzzled the man that made them, was only fastened by a single wooden lock, the key of which, like a dog’s tongue in a hot day, kept lolling out with a negligent inclination towards the ground, very much at ease in its keyhole. The more Pauline gazed around her, the more she was bewildered; and after resolving twenty times to speak to the Norman, and as often failing in courage, she at last produced an articulate sound, which went to inquire where she was. The Norman, who had been walking up and down the room, as if waiting the arrival of some one, stopped in the midst, and making a low inclination, begged to assure Mademoiselle that she was in a place of safety.
The ice being broken, Pauline demanded, “Did not I hear the voice of my maid Louise?”
“No; it was my wife, Mademoiselle,” replied her companion drily; and recommencing his perambulations, the young lady sank back into herself. At length a tap was heard at the door, and the Norman starting forward went on the outside, closing it after him, though not completely; and of the conversation which ensued between him and some other man, Pauline could catch detached sentences, which, though they served but little to elucidate her position to herself, may be of service to the reader.
At first all was conducted in a whisper, but the Norman soon broke forth, “Sachristie! I tell you she got in. I did not catch her till she was coming out.”
“Monseigneur will be precious angry with us both,” answered the other. “How I missed you, I cannot imagine; I only went to call upon la petite Jeanette, and did not stay five minutes.”
“And I just stepped into the Sanglier Gourmand,” rejoined our Norman, “which is opposite, you know. There I thought I could see all that went on. But that maraud, Jacques Chatpilleur, was always at his door about something; so finding that I could not get my second bottle of wine, I went down to the cave for it myself; and she must have passed while I was below.”
“How did you find out, then, that she had got into the Bastille?” demanded the other.
The Norman’s reply was delivered in so low a tone that Pauline could only distinguish the words—“Heard a scream—saw her running past like mad—threw the cloak over her, and brought her here.”
“Perhaps she was not in, after all,” rejoined the other; “but at all events, we must tell Monseigneur so. You swear you caught her just as she was going in, and I’ll vow that I was there and saw you.”
A new consultation seemed to take place; but the speakers proceeded so rapidly, that Pauline could not comprehend upon what it turned exactly, although she was herself evidently the subject of discussion. “Oh, she will not tell, for her own sake,” said one of the voices. “She would be banished, to a certainty, if it was known that she got in; and as to the folks at the Bastille, be sure that they will hold their tongues.”
Something was now said about a letter, and the voice of the Norman replied, “Monseigneur does not suppose that she had a letter. Oh, no! trust me, she had none. It was word of mouth work, be you sure. They were too cunning to send a letter which might be stopped upon her. No, no, they know something more than that.”
“Well, then, the sooner we take her there, the better,” rejoined the other; “the carriage is below, but you must blind her eyes, for she may know the liveries.”
“Ah! your cursed livery betrayed us once before,” answered the Norman. “Holla! la haut! mon Ange, give me a kerchief; I will tie her eyes with that, for the cloak almost smothers her, poor little soul!”
A light step was now heard coming down stairs, and a third person was added to the party without. What they said, Pauline could not make out; but though speaking in a whisper, she was still confident that she distinguished the voice of her maid Louise. “Harm!” said the Norman, after a moment, “we are going to do her no harm, chère amie! She will be down there in Maine, with the Countess, and as happy as a Princess. Give this gentleman the trunk-mail, and get yourself ready against I come back; for we have our journey to take too, you know, ma petite femme.”
The Norman now laid his hand upon the lock; there was a momentary bustle as of the party separating; and then entering the room, he informed Pauline that she must allow him to blindfold her eyes. Knowing that resistance was in vain, Pauline submitted with a good grace; and, her fears considerably allayed by the conversation she had overheard, attempted to draw from the Norman some farther information. But here he was inflexible; and having tied the handkerchief over her eyes, so as completely to prevent her seeing, he conducted her gently down the stairs, taking care to keep her from falling; and having arrived in the open air, lifted her lightly into a carriage, placed himself by her side, and gave orders to drive on.
The vehicle had not proceeded many minutes, when it again stopped; and Pauline was lifted out, conducted up a flight of stone steps, and then led into an apartment, where she was placed in a fauteuil, the luxurious softness of which bespoke a very different sort of furniture from that of the chamber which she had just left. There was now a little bustle, and a good deal of whispering, and then every one seemed to leave the room. Fancying herself alone, Pauline raised her hand, in order to remove the handkerchief from her eyes, at least for a moment; but a loud “Prenez garde!” from the Norman, stopped her in her purpose, and the next instant a door opened, and she heard steps approaching.
“Shut the door,” said a voice she had never heard before. “Marteville, you have done well. Are you sure that she had no conversation with any one within the prison?”
“I will swear to it!” answered the Norman, with the stout asseveration of a determined liar. “Ask your man Chauvelin, Monseigneur; he was by, and saw me catch hold of her before she was at the gate.”
“So he says,” rejoined the other; “but now leave the room. I must have some conversation with this demoiselle myself. Wait for me without.”
“Pardie!” muttered the Norman, as he withdrew; “he’ll find it out now, and then I’m ruined.”
“Mademoiselle de Beaumont,” said the person that remained, “you have been engaged in a rash and dangerous enterprise—Had you succeeded in it, the Bastille must have been your doom, and severe judgment according to the law. By timely information on the subject, I have been enabled to save you from such a fate; but I am sorry to say that, for the safety of all parties, you must endure an absence from your friends for some time.”
He paused, as if expecting a reply; and Pauline, after a moment’s consideration, determined to answer, in order to draw from him, if possible, some farther information concerning the manner in which he had become acquainted with her movements, and also in regard to her future destination. “I perceive, Sir,” said she, “from your conversation, that you belong to the same rank of society as myself; but I am at a loss to imagine how any gentleman presumes to attribute dangerous enterprises, and actions deserving imprisonment, to a lady, of whom he neither does, nor can know any thing.”
“My dear young lady,” replied her companion, “you make me smile. I did not think that I should have to put forth my diplomatic powers against so fair and so youthful an opponent. But allow me to remind you that, when young ladies of the highest rank are found masquerading in the streets at night, dressed in their servants’ garments, they subject their conduct, perhaps, to worse misconstructions than that which I have put upon yours. But, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, I know you, and I know the spirit of your family too well to suppose that any thing but some great and powerful motive could induce you to appear as you do now. Withdraw that bandage from your eyes, (I have no fear of encountering them,) and look if that be a dress in which Mademoiselle de Beaumont should be seen.”
Pauline’s quick fingers instantly removed the handkerchief, and raising her eyes, she found that she was placed exactly before a tall Venetian mirror, which offered her a complete portrait of herself, sitting in an immense arm-chair of green velvet, and disguised in the costume of a Languedoc paysanne. The large capote, or hood, which she had worn, had been thrust back by the Norman, in order to blindfold her eyes, and her dark hair, all dishevelled, was hanging about her face in glossy confusion. The red serge jupe of Louise had acquired in the passages of the Bastille no inconsiderable portion of dust; and near the knee on which she had fallen at the foot of the glacis, it was stained with mire, as well as slightly torn. In addition to all this, appeared a large rent at the side, occasioned by the efforts of Philip the woodman to disengage it from the staple on which it had caught; and the black bodice had been broadly marked with green mould, in pressing against the wall while the guards passed so near to her.
Her face also was deathly pale, with all the alarm, agitation, and fatigue she had undergone; so that no person could be more different from the elegant and blooming Pauline de Beaumont than the figure which that mirror reflected. Pauline almost started when she beheld herself; but quickly recovering from her surprise, she cast her eyes round the room, which was furnished in the most splendid and costly manner, and filled with a thousand objects of curiosity or luxury, procured from all the quarters of the globe.
Her attention, however, rested not upon any of these. Within a few paces of the chair in which she sat, stood a tall elegant man, near that period of life called the middle age, but certainly rather below than above the point to which the term is generally applied. He was splendidly dressed, according to the custom of the day; and the neat trimming of his beard and mustaches, the regular arrangement of his dark flowing hair, and the scrupulous harmony and symmetry of every part of his apparel, contradicted the thoughtful, dignified expression of his eyes, which seemed occupied with much higher thoughts. Vandyke has transmitted to us many such a physiognomy, and many such a dress; but few of his costumes are more splendid, or his countenances more dignified, than was that of the stranger who stood beside Mademoiselle de Beaumont.
He paused for a moment, giving her time to make what examination she liked of every thing in the apartment; and as her eye glanced to himself, demanded with a smile, “Well, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, do you recollect me?”
“Not in the least,” replied Pauline: “I think, Sir, that we can never have seen each other before.”
“Yes, we have,” answered her companion, “but it was at a distance. However, now look in that glass, and tell me—Do you recollect yourself?”
“Hardly!” replied Pauline, with a blush, “hardly, indeed!”
“Well then, fair lady, I think that you will no longer demand my reasons for attributing to you dangerous enterprises, and actions, as you say, deserving imprisonment; but to put an end to your doubts at once, look at that order, where, I think, you will find yourself somewhat accurately described.” And he handed to Pauline a small piece of parchment, beginning with the words of serious import ‘De par le roy,’ and going on to order the arrest of the Demoiselle Pauline, daughter of the late Marquis de Beaumont, and of the Dame Anne de la Hautière; with all those good set terms and particulars, which left no room for mistake or quibble, even if it had been examined by the eyes of the sharpest lawyer of the Cour des Aides.
“What say you now, Mademoiselle de Beaumont?” demanded her companion, seeing her plunged in embarrassment and surprise.
“I have nothing to say, Sir,” replied Pauline, “but that I must submit. However, I trust that, in common humanity, I shall be allowed to see my mother, either when I am in prison, or before I am conveyed thither.”
“You mistake me,” said the other; “you are not going to a prison. I only intend that you should take a little journey into the country; during the course of which all attention shall be paid to your comfort and convenience. Of course, young lady, when you undertook the difficult task of conveying a message from the Queen to a prisoner in the Bastille, you were prepared to risk the consequences. As you have not succeeded, no great punishment will fall upon you; but as it is absolutely necessary to the Government to prevent all communication between suspected parties, you must bear a temporary absence from the Court, till such time as this whole business be terminated; for neither the Queen, nor any one else, must know how far you have succeeded or failed.”
Pauline pleaded hard to be allowed to see her mother, but in vain. The stranger was obdurate, and would listen to neither entreaties, promises, nor remonstrances. All she could obtain was, the assurance that Madame de Beaumont should be informed of her safety, and that, perhaps, after a time she might be permitted to write to her. “Listen to me,” said the stranger, cutting short the prayers by which she was attempting to influence him. “I expect the King and Court from Chantilly within an hour; and before that time you must be out of Paris. For your convenience, a female servant shall attend you, and you will meet with all the respect due to your rank; but for your own sake, ask no questions, for I never permit my domestics to canvass my affairs with any one—nay, they are forbidden ever to mention my name, except for some express and permitted purpose. I will now leave you, and send Mathurine to your assistance, who will help you to change your dress from that coffre. You will then take some refreshment, and set out as speedily as possible. At the end of your journey, you will meet with one to whose care I have recommended you, and you will then learn in whose hands you are placed. At present, I have the honour of bidding you farewell.”
The uncertainty of her fate, the separation from her mother, the vague uneasy fear attendant upon want of all knowledge of whither she was going, and the impossibility of communicating with her friends under any event, raised up images far more terrifying and horrible to the mind of Pauline, than almost any specific danger could have done; and, as her companion turned away, she hid her face in her hands and wept.
Hearing her sob, and perhaps attributing her tears to other motives, he returned for a moment, and said in a low voice: “Do not weep, my dear child! I give you my honour, that you will be well and kindly treated. But one thing I forgot to mention. I know that your object was to visit the Count de Blenau; and I know, also, that a personal interest had something to do in the matter. Now, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, I can feel for you; and it may be some comfort to know, that M. de Blenau has, at least, one person in the Council, who will strive to give to the proceedings against him as much leniency as circumstances will admit.”
This said, he quitted the apartment, and in a moment after Pauline was joined by the female servant of whom he had spoken. She was a staid, reputable-looking woman, of about fifty, with a little of the primness of ancient maidenhood, but none of its acerbity. And, aware of Pauline’s rank, she assisted her to disentangle herself from her uncomfortable disguise with silent respect, though she could not help murmuring to herself. “Mon Dieu! Une demoiselle mise comme ça.” She then called the young Lady’s attention to the contents of the coffre, asking which dress she would choose to wear; when, to her surprise, Pauline found that it contained a considerable part of her own wardrobe. Forgetting the prohibition to ask questions, she could not help demanding of Mathurine how her clothes could come there; but the servant was either ignorant, or pretended to be so, and Pauline could obtain no information. As soon as she was dressed, some refreshments were placed on the table by Mathurine, who received them from a servant at one of the doors, which she immediately closed again, and pressed Pauline to eat. Pauline at first refused; but at length, to satisfy her companion, who continued to insist upon it with a degree of quiet, persevering civility, that would take no refusal, she took some of the coffee, which was at that time served up as a rarity. As soon as ever the domestic perceived that no entreaty would induce her to taste any thing else, she called in a servant to carry the coffre to the carriage, and then notified to Pauline that it was time for them to depart.
Pauline felt that all resistance or delay would be vain; and she accordingly followed Mathurine down a magnificent staircase into a court-yard, where stood a chaise roulante, the door of which was held open by the Norman we have already mentioned, while two men-servants appeared ready mounted to follow the vehicle, as soon as it set out. Mathurine placed herself by Pauline’s side when she had entered; and the Norman, having closed the door, opened the porte-cochère of the court, and the carriage drove out into the street.
We will not take the trouble of following Mademoiselle de Beaumont on her journey, which occupied that night and the two following days:—suffice it to say, that on the evening of the second day they arrived in the beautiful neighbourhood of Château du Loir. The smiling slopes, covered with the first vines; the rich fruit-trees hanging actually over the road, and dropping with the latest gifts of liberal Nature; the balmy air of a warm September evening; the rosy cheeks of the peasantry; and the clear, smooth windings of the river Loir,[A] all announced that they were approaching the land of happy Touraine: and after putting her head more than once from the window, Mathurine, with a smile of pleasure, pointed forward, exclaiming, “Voilà le Château.”
[A] Not the Loire.
Pauline’s eyes followed to the point where the other’s hand directed them; and upon a high ground, rising gently above the trees which crowned a little projecting turn of the river, she beheld a group of towers and pinnacles, with the conical-slated roofs, multifarious weathercocks, long narrow windows, one turret upon the back of another, and all the other distinctive marks of an old French château.
In which De Blenau finds that he has got the rod in his own hand, and how he uses it; together with a curious account of a tremendous combat and glorious victory.
ICAN easily imagine myself, and I dare say the reader will not find much difficulty in fancying, that the Count de Blenau suffered not a little inquietude while he remained in uncertainty respecting Pauline’s free exit from the Bastille.
Take and draw him, as Sterne did his captive. See him walking up and down the chamber with the anxiety of doubt upon his brow and in his heart, listening for every sound in the court-yard, catching the footstep of the sentinel at his door, and fancying it the return of the Governor,—hope struggling against fear, and fear remaining victor,—conjuring up a thousand wild, improbable events, and missing the true one; and, in short, making his bosom a hell wherein to torment his own heart.
Thus did Claude de Blenau, during that lapse of time which the Governor might reasonably be supposed to be occupied in the duties of his office. But when a longer time passed, and still no news arrived of Pauline’s escape, the uncertainty became too great for mortal endurance; and he was about to risk all, by descending into the court through the turret, when the challenge of the sentinel announced the approach of some one, and in the next moment the Governor entered the room, his pale features flushed with anger, and his lip quivering with ill-subdued rage.
“Monsieur de Blenau!” said he, in a tone that he had never before presumed to use towards his wealthy prisoner, “here is something wrong. There has been a woman in the prison to-night, passing for that rascal Woodman’s daughter: and I am given to understand, that she has brought either letter or message to you. But I will ascertain the truth—By Heaven! I will ascertain the truth!”
“Have you detained her, then?” exclaimed De Blenau, losing all caution in his fears for Pauline.
“Oh, ho! Monsieur le Comte,” said the Governor, fixing on him his keen and angry eye; “then you do know that she has been here? But do you know, Sir, that it may cost me my head?”
“Very possibly, if you tell any body,” replied De Blenau; who by this time had recovered his self-possession, and had, upon reconsideration, drawn from the Governor’s speech a different conclusion from that which he had formed at first; feeling sure, that if Pauline had not escaped, his anger would have taken a calmer form. “Listen to me, Sir Governor,” continued he firmly, after having determined in his own mind the line of conduct which he ought to pursue: “let us deal straightforwardly towards each other, and like friends as we have hitherto done. We are both in some degree in each other’s power. On your part, do not attempt to entrap me into any acknowledgment, and I will show you that I will not make use of any advantage you may have given me——”
“I do not understand your meaning, Sir,” cried the Governor, still angrily: “I have given you no advantage. By Heaven! I will have the apartment searched;—ay, Sir, and your person too.”
“Will you so?” replied De Blenau, coolly drawing from his bosom the Queen’s billet, and approaching the edge to the lamp so that it caught fire. The Governor started forward to seize it; but the strong arm of the Count held him at a distance, till the few lines the Queen had written were irretrievably destroyed; and then freeing him from his grasp, he pointed to a chair, saying, “Now, Monsieur le Gouverneur, sit down and listen to a few words of common sense.” The Governor placed himself in the chair with a look of bitter malignity; but this softened down gradually into an expression of thoughtful cunning, as De Blenau proceeded—“Thus stands the case,” said the Count; “I was committed to your charge, I think, with positive orders not to allow me communication with any person whatsoever—was it not so?” The Governor assented: “It so happened, however,” continued the Count with a smile, “that at our very first interview, you conceived a friendship for me of the most liberal and disinterested nature,” (the Governor bit his lip,) “a sort of love at first sight; and, for the sake of my accommodation, you not only broke through the positive commands of the Cardinal Prime Minister, in suffering me once to have communication with another person, but allowed such to take place at all times, according to my pleasure; and also took especial pains to procure the attendance of the person I wished, paying him with my money, for which, and other excellent purposes, you have, within the space of six days, received from me upwards of one thousand crowns.”
The Governor winced most desperately; and fully convinced, that a tale so told, would readily convey his head under the axe of the executioner, if it reached the ears of Richelieu, he cursed himself for a fool, De Blenau for a knave, and Philip the woodman for something between the two; most devoutly wishing both the others at the Devil, so he could slip his own neck out of the halter.
De Blenau, without much skill in reading the mind’s construction by the face, easily divined what was passing in his companion’s bosom; and perceiving him to be much in the situation of a lame dog, he resolved still to apply the lash a little, before he helped him over the stile. “Well, Sir Governor,” continued he; “now we will suppose, as a mere hypothesis to reason upon, that, through this very liberty which your disinterested kindness has allowed me, I have received those communications from without, which it was the Cardinal’s great object to prevent. How ought you to act under such circumstances? Ought you to go to the stern, unrelenting Richelieu, and say to him,—‘May it please your Eminence, I have intentionally and wilfully broken through every order you gave me—I have taken the utmost pains that they should not be observed; and I have so far succeeded in thwarting your designs, that Monsieur de Blenau, from whom I have received one thousand crowns, and from whom I expect a thousand more the moment he is liberated—I say, that this good friend of mine, and your enemy, has gained all the information which you wished to prevent,'—This would be a pretty confession of faith!”
De Blenau paused, and the Governor bit his lip; but after a moment, he looked the Count full in the face, and replied, “Perhaps it might be the best way.”
De Blenau, however, was not to be deceived; he saw terror in the deadly hue of the Governor’s pale cheek, and the anxious rolling of his sunken eye, and he went on—“Perhaps it might be the best way—to have your head struck off without delay; for what would your confession avail the Cardinal now, after the mischief is done?—Would it not be better to say to yourself,—‘Here is a young nobleman, whom I believe to be innocent—for whom I have a regard—whom I have served already, and who is both willing and able to reward any one who does serve him; and who, lastly, will never betray me, let happen what will. Under these circumstances, should I not be a fool of the first water, to inquire into a matter, the truth of which I am very unlikely to discover, and which, if I do, it will be my duty to disclose: whereas, standing as the affair does now, without my knowledge in the least, my ignorance makes my innocence, and I betray no one. Even supposing that the whole be found out, I am no worse than I was before, for the story can but be told at last; while, if the Count be liberated, which most likely he will, instead of losing my office, or my head, I shall gain a thousand crowns to indemnify me for all the trouble I have had, and shall ensure his friendship for life.’ Now, Monsieur le Gouverneur, this is what you ought to say to yourself. In my opinion, the strength of argument is all on one side. Even if there were any thing to know, you would be a fool to investigate it, where you must of necessity be your own accuser; where all is to be lost, and nothing can be gained.”
“You argue well, Monsieur de Blenau,” answered the Governor, thoughtfully; “and your reasoning would be convincing, if it extended to all the circumstances of the case. But you do not know one half;—you do not know, that Chavigni, from whose eyes nothing seems hidden, knew of this girl’s coming, and sent me an order to detain her, which that sottish fool the Porter never gave me till she had escaped—How am I to get over that, pray?”
“Then, positively, she has escaped?” demanded De Blenau.
“Yes, yes, she has escaped!” replied the Governor pettishly: “you seem to consider nothing but her; but, let me tell you, Monsieur de Blenau, that you are fully as much concerned as I am, for if they discover that she has got in, you will have a touch of the peine forte et dure, to make you confess who she is, and what she came for.”
“Truly, I know not what can be done,” answered the Count. “Chavigni seems to know all about it.”
“No, no! he does not know all,” replied the Governor; “for he says here, in his note, that if a young lady dressed in a jupe of red serge, with a black bodice, comes to the gate of the prison, asking any thing concerning the Count de Blenau, we are to detain her: now she never mentioned your name, and, God knows, I heeded not what she was dressed in.”
“Then the matter is very simple,” replied the Count; “no such person as he bade you detain, has been here. This is no matter of honour between man and man, where you are bound to speak your suspicions as well as your knowledge. No person has come to the gate of the prison asking any thing concerning me; and so answer Chavigni.”
“But the Porter, Monsieur de Blenau,” said the officer, anxiously,—“he may peach. All the other dependents on the prison are my own, placed by me, and would turn out were I to lose my office; but this porter was named by the Cardinal himself.—What is to be done with him?”
“Oh! fear not him,” answered De Blenau; “as his negligence was the cause of your not receiving the order in time to render it effectual, your silence will be a favour to him.”
“True! true!” cried the Governor, rubbing his hands with all the rapture of a man suddenly relieved from a mortal embarrassment: “True! true! I’ll go and bully him directly—I’ll threaten to inform the Cardinal, and Chavigni, and the whole Council; and then—when he begins to fancy that he feels the very rope round his neck—I’ll relent, and be charitable, and agree to conceal his mistake, and to swear that the lady never came.—How will Chavigni know? She will never confess it herself, and at that hour it was too dark for any one to watch her up to the gates.—Morbleu! that will do precisely.”
“I see little or no danger attending upon it,” said the prisoner; “and, at all events, it is a great deal better than conveying your neck into the noose, which you would certainly do by confessing to Richelieu the circumstances as they have occurred.”
“Well, well, we will risk it, at all events,” replied the Governor, who, though not quite free from apprehension respecting the result, had now regained his usual sweet complacency of manner. “But one thing, Monsieur de Blenau, I am sure you will promise me; namely, that this attempt shall never be repeated, even if occasion should occur: and for the rest—with regard to your never betraying me, and other promises which your words imply, I will trust to your honour.”
De Blenau readily agreed to what the Governor required, and repeated his promises never to disclose any thing that had occurred, and to reward his assistance with a thousand crowns, upon being liberated. Mindful of all who served him, he did not forget Philip the woodman; and deeply thankful for the escape of Pauline, was the more anxious to ascertain the fate of one who had so greatly contributed to the success of her enterprise.
“Speak not of him! speak not of him!” exclaimed the Governor, breaking forth into passion at De Blenau’s inquiries. “This same skilful plotter attends upon you no longer. You will suffer some inconvenience for your scheme; but it is your fault, not mine, and you must put up with it as best you may.”
“That I care not about,” replied De Blenau. “But I insist upon it that he be treated with no severity. Mark me, Monsieur le Gouverneur: if I find that he is ill used, Chavigni shall hear of the whole business. I will risk any thing sooner than see a man suffer from his kindness for me.”
“You paid him well, of course,” said the Governor, drawing up his lip, “and he must take his chance. However, do not alarm yourself for him: he shall be taken care of—only, with your good leave, Seigneur Comte, you and he do not meet again within the walls of the Bastille.—But in the name of Heaven! what clatter is this at the door?” he exclaimed, starting from his chair, at a most unusual noise which proceeded from the staircase.
The Governor, indeed, had good reason to be astonished; for never was there a more strange and inconsistent sound heard within the walls of a prison, than that which saluted their ears. First came the “Qui vive?” of the sentinel; to which a voice roared out, “Le Diable!” “Qui vive?” cried the sentinel again, in a still sharper key. The answer to this was nothing but a clatter, as the Governor had expressed it, such as we might suppose produced by the blowing up of a steam-kitchen: then followed the discharge of the sentinel’s firelock; and then sundry blows given and received upon some hard and sonorous substance, mingled with various oaths, execrations, and expletives then in use amongst the lower classes of his Christian Majesty’s lieges, making altogether a most deafening din.
At this sound the Governor, as little able to conceive whence it originated as De Blenau himself, drew his sword, and throwing open the door, discovered the redoubtable Jacques Chatpilleur, Cuisinier Aubergiste, striding in triumph over the prostrate body of the sentinel, and waving over his head an immense stew-pan, being the weapon with which he had achieved the victory, and through which appeared a small round hole, caused by the ball of the soldier’s firelock. In the mean while was to be seen the sentinel on the ground, his iron morion actually dented by the blows of his adversary, and his face and garments bedabbled, not with blood, indeed, but with the Poulet en blanquette and its white sauce, which had erst been tenant of the stew-pan.
“Victoria! Victoria! Victoria!” shouted the aubergiste, waving his stew-pan; “Twice have I conquered in one night! Can Mieleraye or Bouillon say that? Victoria! Victoria!” But here his triumph received a check; for looking into the unhappy utensil, he suddenly perceived the loss of its contents, which had flown all over the place, the treacherous lid having detached itself during his conflict with the sentinel, and sought safety in flight down the stairs. “Mon Poulet! mon Poulet!” exclaimed he, in a tone of bitter despair, “le nid y est, mais l’oiseau est parti,—the nest is there, but the bird is flown. Helas, mon Poulet! mon pauvre Poulet!” and quitting the body of his prostrate foe, he advanced into the apartment with that sort of zig-zag motion which showed that the thin sinewy shanks which supported his woodcock-shaped upper man, were somewhat affected by a more than usual quantity of the generous grape.
The whole scene was so inexpressibly ludicrous, that De Blenau burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, in which the Governor could not help joining, notwithstanding his indignation at the treatment the sentinel had experienced. Recovering himself, however, he poured forth his wrath upon the aubergiste in no measured terms, demanding how he dared to conduct himself so in the Royal Chateau of the Bastille, and what had become of the Count de Blenau’s supper, adding a few qualificatory epithets, which may as well be omitted.
“Eh bien, Monsieur! Eh bien!” cried the aubergiste, with very little respect for the Governor: “as for the gentleman there, lying on his belly, he ought to have let me in, and not fired his piece at me. He knew me well enough. He might have cried Qui vive? once,—that was well, as it is the etiquette.”
“But why did you not answer him, sacré maraud?” cried the Governor.
“I did answer him,” replied the other, stoutly. “He cried Qui vive? and I answered Le Diable, car le Diable vive toujours. And as for the supper, I have lost it all. Je l’ai perdu entre deux mâtins. The first was a greedy Norman vagabond, who feeds at my auberge; and while I was out for a minute, he whips me up my matelot d’anguille from out of the casserole, and my dinde piquée from the spit, and when I came back five minutes after, there was nothing left but bare bones and empty bottles. Pardie! And now I have bestowed on the head of that varlet a poulet en blanquette that might have comforted the stomach of a King. Oh Dieu! Dieu! mes malheurs ne finiront jamais. Oh! but I forgot,” he continued, “there is still a fricandeau à l’oseille with a cold paté, that will do for want of a better.—Monseigneur, votre serviteur,” and he bowed five or six times to De Blenau; “Monsieur le Gouverneur, votre très humble,” and bowing round and round to every one, even to the sentinel, who by this time was beginning to recover his feet, the tipsy aubergiste staggered off, escaping the wrath of the Governor by the promise of the fricandeau, but not, however, without being threatened with punishment on the morrow.
The bureau of a Counsellor of State, or how things were managed in 1642.
“MARTEVILLE, you have served me essentially,” said the Count de Chavigni as soon as he had left Pauline in what was called the ladies’ hall of the Hotel de Bouthilliers, addressing the tall Norman, whom the reader has already recognised beyond a doubt. “You know I never suffer any good service to go without its reward; therefore I will now pay you yours, more especially as I have fresh demands to make upon your zeal. Let us see how our accounts stand;” and approaching a small table, which served both for the purposes of a writing-desk and also to support a strong ebony cabinet clasped with silver, he drew forth a bunch of keys and opened a drawer plated with iron, which contained a quantity of gold and silver coin. Chavigni then seated himself at the table, and the Norman standing on his right hand, they began regularly to balance accounts, the items of the Norman’s charge being various services of rather a curious nature.
“For stopping the Archduke’s courier,” said Chavigni, “and taking from him his despatches—fifty crowns is enough for that.”
“I demand no more,” said Marteville; “any common thief could have done it.”
“But, by the way, I hope you did not hurt him, for he came with a safe conduct.”
“Hurt him! no,” replied the Norman: “we are the best friends in the world. When I met him on the road, I told him civilly that I must have his despatches; and that I would either cut his throat or drink a bottle with him, whichever he liked: so he chose the latter, and when we parted, he promised to give me notice the next time he came on the same errand.”
“The rascal!” said Chavigni, “that is the way we are served. But now we come to this business of the Count de Blenau—what do you expect for the whole concern?”
“Nay but, Monseigneur, you forget,” exclaimed the other; “there is one little item before that. Put down,—for being an Astrologer.”
“Why, I have given you fifty crowns on that account already,” rejoined the Statesman; “you are exorbitant, Seigneur Marteville.”
“That fifty crowns went for my expenses—all of it,” replied the other. “There was my long black robe all covered with gimcracks; there was my leathern belt, painted with all the signs under heaven; there was my white beard, and wig, which cost me ten good crowns at the shop of Jansen the Peruquier: besides the harness of my horse, which was made to suit, and my Astrologer’s bonnet, which kept all fast upon my head. Now, Monseigneur, you cannot give me less than fifty crowns, for being out two nights, and running the risk of being burnt alive.”
“I think not,” said Chavigni, “so let that pass. But to come to the other business.”
“Why, first and foremost,” replied the Norman, marking each article as he named it, by laying the index of his right hand upon one of the immense fingers of his left,—“For making love to Mademoiselle’s maid.”
“Nay, nay, nay!” cried Chavigni, “this is too much. That must be part of the dower I have promised with her, of which we will talk presently. But have you married her?”
“No,” answered the Norman, “not yet. We will see about that hereafter.”
Chavigni’s cheek reddened, and his brow knit into a heavy frown. “No evasions, Sir. I commanded you, when you took her away last night from Chantilly, to marry her directly, and you agreed to do so. Why is it not done?”
“If the truth must be told, Monseigneur, it is not done, because it goes against a Norman gentleman’s stomach to take up with any body’s cast-offs.”
“Do not be insolent, Sir,” cried the Statesman. “Did I not give you my honour that your suspicion was false? Know, Sir, that though Chavigni may sometimes condescend to converse with you, or may appear to trifle for a moment with a girl like this Louise, it is merely to gain some greater object that he does so; and that unless it be for some State purpose, he never honours such beings with his thoughts.”
“Well, well, Monseigneur,” replied the other, seeing the fire that flashed in his Lord’s eye, “I will marry her: Foy de Normand! Don’t be angry; I will marry her.”
“Foy de Normand! will not do,” said Chavigni. “It must be this very night.”
“Eh bien! Eh bien! Soit,” cried the Norman, and then muttered to himself with a grin, “I’ve four wives now living; a fifth won’t make much difference.”
“What murmur you, Sir?” demanded the Statesman. “Mark me! in one hour from hence you will find a priest and two witnesses in the Cardinal’s chapel! When you are married, the priest will give you a certificate of the ceremony, carry it to my intendant, and upon the sight of it he will pay you the sum we agree upon. Now, proceed with your demands.”
“Well then, Monseigneur,” continued Marteville, “what is the information concerning Mademoiselle’s coming to Paris worth?”
“It is worth a good deal,” replied Chavigni, “and I will always pay more for knowledge of that kind than any acts of brute force. Set that down for a hundred crowns, and fifty more for catching the young lady, and bringing her here; making altogether two hundred and fifty.”
“Yes, Sir, yes; but the dot—the dowry you mentioned,” cried the Norman. “You have forgot that.”
“No, I have not,” replied Chavigni. “In favour of Louise, I will make the sum up one thousand crowns, which you will receive the moment you have married her.”
“Oh! I’ll marry her directly, if that be the case,” cried the Norman. “Morbleu! that makes all the difference.”
“But treat her kindly,” said Chavigni. “With the stipend of a thousand crowns, which I allow you yearly, and what you can gain by particular services, you may live very well; and perhaps I may add some little gratification, if you please me in your conduct towards your wife.”
“Oh! I’ll be the tenderest husband living,” cried the Norman, “since my gratification depends upon her’s. But I’ll run and fetch her to be married directly, if you will send the Priest, Monseigneur.”
“Nay, stop a moment,” said the Statesman. “You forget that I told you I had other journeys for you to take, and other services for you to perform.”
“No, Sir,” answered the Norman, “all is prepared to set out this very night, if you will tell me my errand.”
Chavigni paused for a moment, and remained in deep thought, gnawing his lip as if embarrassed by doubts as to the best manner of proceeding. “Mark me, Marteville,” said he at length: “there are two or three sorts of scoundrels in the world, amongst whom I do not look upon you as the least.” The Norman bowed with the utmost composure, very well aware of the place he held in Chavigni’s opinion. “There are, however, some good points about you,” continued the Statesman; at which Marteville bowed again. “You would rob, kill, and plunder, I believe, without remorse, any one you hated or did not care about; but I do not think you would forget a kindness or betray a trust.”
“Never!” said the Norman: “red-hot pincers will not tear from me what is intrusted to my honour.”
“So be it, then, in the present instance,” said Chavigni; “for I am obliged to give you the knowledge of some things, and to enter into explanations with you, which I do not often do with any one. You must know, then, I have information that on the same day that Monsieur de Cinq Mars set out from Chantilly with Monsieur de Thou, the Duke of Orleans, with Montressor and St. Ibal, took their departure from Moulins, and the Count de Fontrailles from Paris. They all journeyed towards the same point in Champagne. I can trace Fontrailles to Troyes, the Duke and his companions to Villeneuve, and Cinq Mars and De Thou to Nogent, but no farther. All this might be accidental, but there are circumstances that create suspicion in my mind. Cinq Mars, when he set forth, gave out that he went to his estate near Troyes, in which I find he never set his foot; and when he returned, his conference with Louis was somewhat long. It might have been of hawks and hounds, it is true; but after it, the King’s manner both to the Cardinal and myself was cold and haughty, and he suddenly took this resolution of coming to Paris himself to examine into the case of the young Count de Blenau:—in short, I suspect that some plot is on foot. What I require of you then is, to hasten down to Champagne; try to trace each of these persons, and discover if they had a conference, and where; find out the business that brought each of them so far, examine their track as you would the slot of a deer, and give me whatever information you collect; employ every means to gain a thorough knowledge of all their proceedings—force, should it be required—but let that be the last thing used. Here is this signet, upon the sight of which all the agents of Government in the different towns and villages will communicate with you.” And he drew from his finger a small seal ring, which the Norman consigned to his pocket, his hands being somewhat too large to admit of his wearing it in the usual manner.
“The Duke of Orleans and his pack I know well,” answered Marteville, “and also Cinq Mars and De Thou; but this Count de Fontrailles—what like is he, Monseigneur?”
“He is a little ugly mean-looking man,” replied Chavigni; “he frequently dresses himself in grey, and looks like a sorcerer. Make him your first object; for if ever there was a devil of cunning upon earth, it is Fontrailles, and he is at the bottom of the plot if there be one.”
“You traced him to Troyes, you say, Monseigneur? Had he any pretence of business there?”
“None,” answered Chavigni; “my account says that he had no attendants with him, lodged at the Auberge du Grand Soleil, and was poorly dressed.”
“I will trace him if he were the Devil himself,” said the Norman; “and before I see you again, Monseigneur, I shall be able to account for each of these gentry.”
“If you do,” said Chavigni, “a thousand crowns is your reward; and if you discover any plot or treasonable enterprise, so that by your means they may be foiled and brought to justice, the thousand shall grow into ten thousand, and you shall have a place that will give you a life of luxury.”
The Norman’s eyes sparkled at the anticipation, and his imagination pourtrayed himself and his five wives living together in celestial harmony, drinking the best vintages of Burgundy and Epernay, eating of the fat of the land, and singing like mad. These blissful ideas were first interrupted by the sound of horses’ feet in the court. “Hark!” cried Chavigni, “they are putting the horses to the carriage; go down, and see that all be prepared for the young lady’s journey.”
“Instantly,” answered the Norman, “and after that I will carry Louise to the Priest, finger your Lordship’s cash, and we will set off for Troyes.”
“Do you intend to take her with you?” demanded Chavigni, in some surprise.
“Nay, my Lord, you would not wish me to leave my bride on our wedding night, surely,” replied the Norman, in a mock sentimental tone. “But the truth is, I think she may be useful. Woman’s wit will often find a way where man’s wisdom looks in vain; and as I have now, thanks to your bounty, two good horses, I shall e’en set Louise upon one of them, and with the bridle rein over my arm lead her to Brie, where, with your good leave, we will sleep, and thence on upon our journey. Travelling with a woman, no one will suspect my real object, and I shall come sooner at my purpose.”
“Well, so be it then,” answered the Statesman. “You are now, as you wished to be, intrusted with an affair of more importance than stopping a courier, or carrying off a weak girl; and as the reward is greater, so would be the punishment in case you were to betray your trust. I rely on your honour; but let me hint at the same time, that there is such a thing as the rack, which has more than once been applied to persons who reveal State secrets. Keep good account of your expenses, and such as are truly incurred for the Government, the Government wall pay.”
Thus ended the conference between Chavigni and the Norman, neither of whom we shall follow much farther in this volume. Of Chavigni it is only necessary to say, that immediately after the departure of Pauline he proceeded to the Louvre to wait the arrival of Louis the Thirteenth, who soon after entered Paris, accompanied by the Queen, Cinq Mars, and all the usual attendants of the court, and followed by the Cardinal and those members of the Council who had not previously arrived along with Chavigni.
In regard to the Norman, inspired by the agreeable prospect of a thousand crowns, he was not long in visiting the Chapel of the Palais Cardinal, where the Priest speedily united him to a black-eyed damsel that he brought in his hand. Who this was, it does not suit me to discover to the reader. If he have found it out already, I cannot help it; but if he have not, I vow and protest that in the whole course of this true history I will afford him no farther explanation; no, not even in the last sentence of the last page of the last volume.
Immediately after their marriage the Norman put his bride upon horseback and proceeded to Brie, each carrying behind them a valise, containing a variety of articles which would doubtless greatly edify the reader to learn, but which unfortunately cannot now be detailed at full length, the schedule having been lost some years after by one of their collateral descendants in the great fire of London, where it had found its way in consequence of the revocation of the edict of Nantes. All that can be affirmed with certainty is, that in the valise of the Norman were three shirts and a half with falling collars, according to the fashion of that day; a pourpoint or doublet of blue velvet, (which was his best,) and a cloak to match; also (of the same stuff) a haut-de-chausses, which was a machine then used for the same purpose as a pair of breeches now-a-days; and over and above all the rest was his Astrologer’s robe and grey beard, folded round a supernumerary brace of pistols, and a small stiletto. Into the Lady’s wardrobe we shall not inquire: suffice it to say, that it accompanied its mistress safe from Brie to Troyes, where, putting up at the Grand Soleil, the Norman began his perquisitions concerning Fontrailles.
Now having left all my friends and acquaintances at sixes and sevens, I shall close this volume; and if the reader be interested in their fate, he may go on to the next, in which I mean utterly to annihilate them all, leaving nothing behind but the sole of the Count de Blenau’s shoe, with FINIS at the bottom of the page.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
| Typographical error corrected by the etext transcriber: |
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| aud the servant again=> and the servant again {pg 118} |