It was in the early part of May, 1747, that Fordingbridge had been led out to his doom, and month after month had passed, another May had come and gone, and, at last, another December--the December of 1748--had come round. Then even the hopeless state into which Bertie had been so long plunged was quickened back to life by the behaviour of two people with whom he held some intercourse.
Although Falmy and he had almost ceased now, from very weariness during the passage of time--perhaps from heartbrokenness--to communicate much, they did occasionally do so when either considered that he had anything to tell the other that might cause him some faint stir of interest; and one morning the former, appearing at his window, made signs to Bertie that he was about to signal. Then when the other nodded to show that he was attending to him, the Genevese traced on his board the sentence, "Have you heard anything unusual?" To this Bertie, with a bound of his heart--for, in spite of his long incarceration and his growing hopelessness, he still had, although he knew it not, a ray of courage, of presentiment, left in him--shook his head, and by eager facial signs asked Falmy to explain his meaning. But he, whether it might be that he was afraid of communicating too swiftly anything he had gathered, only signalled back, "Say nothing to De Chevagny as yet. It is rumoured that they have remembered him."
"Remembered him," thought Bertie, "at last!" and as he so reflected he looked round upon the poor old man sitting with his white head bent over his knees, and wondered if, should this be true, it would be for his good to go forth.
"'Tis now forty-five years," he said to himself, "since he came here. A lifetime! Of what use for him to regain his liberty? He said once to me, when first I was brought to this room, that this awful place was his only home. Heaven grant, if they release him, that he may not find it to be so!"
He watched Bluet's manner when he removed the remains of their next meal--which meals had gradually, as month followed month, become more sparse and meagre, possibly because De Launey had now come to suppose that neither of them would ever be able to publish to anyone outside those gloomy walls the story of his neglect and parsimony, to call it by no other name--and as he did so he noticed that this good-natured fellow seemed even kinder to the old man than ever.
"Mon Dieu!" he began now, with his usual exclamation, varied only occasionally with hisma foi--"mon Dieu, 'tis cold, Monsieur le Marquis. Yet, I'll warrant me, there are blazing fires in many a happy home in France.Par exemple, now, in the Château de Chevagny I will dare to say they keep good fires for monsieur."
The old man looked up at him with a startled, hurt look; then he said softly:
"Bluet, you have always been good and kind to me. In the ten years you have been here I have come to look on you as a friend. Yet, when you recall needlessly to me my--my long-vanished home--that I shall never see more--you hurt, you wound me."
"Ah!avec ça!" said Bluet, "I'll wager you see that home again yet. Or, perhaps--mon Dieu!why not?--the Hôtel de Chevagny in Paris itself. Monsieur le Marquis is not to suppose we shall entertain him for ever; no, no! Neither is he to imagine that because he has dwelt with us so long--it is a little long, I concede--he shall never leave us."
The old man regarded him fixedly for a moment, then he sighed and gave a true French shrug to his shoulders. "If," he exclaimed, in his gentle, well-bred voice, the aristocratic tones of which he had never lost--"if it pleases you to wound me, Bluet, you must do so. Yet I know not why. We have always been such good friends."
"Cease," said Bertie to the turnkey in a whisper. "Why play with an old man thus?"
"It is no play," Bluet replied in the same whisper, only that his was a husky, vinous one. "He is remembered. D'Argenson comes to-morrow night. He will go before him. It may be that on the next day he will be free. Break it to him if you can."
"You are certain of this?" Bertie asked, intensely startled and interested now. "Certain? I thought you told me long ago that no one knew who the judges would call before them."
"Ordinairement," replied Bluet, while he glanced at the marquis, who was again warming himself at the fire, "no one does. But this is different. The minister sent a day or so ago asking if there was one incarcerated here of his name. They say the primate, Tencin, stirred him to it. Then--then--voyez-vous--D'Argenson's secretary came and--poof!--we hear many things, we jailors! D'Argenson will come himself to-morrow night, and,mort de ma vie!we shall lose the prison flower! Where--where will he go to? May the good God protect him!"
The name of Tencin roused many bitter reflections in Bertie's heart, many recollections of how it was this cardinal and archbishop who had been the mainspring, the prime mover, in the Scots' invasion of--of--was it a year ago, or two years ago? He had to pause and count over to himself the time ere he could recollect, for he seemed to have lost all power now of reckoning the period that he had been in the Bastille. Then, when he had arrived at the remembrance that he had absolutely been here for two winters and was in the third December of his detention, his mind went back to the name of Tencin again. Tencin, he repeated--Tencin, the minister who brought about the invasion of England, who was the friend, almost, indeed, the patron, of his own master, Charles Edward. Yet he, a devoted follower and adherent of that Prince, a man who had followed him until the last, had had to suffer so cruel an imprisonment as this which he had undergone! Tencin! Would he allow that if he knew of it? Would he let one who had served the Prince so well be incarcerated there? It might be not, if he but knew that such was the case. Only, how could the fact be brought to the powerful cardinal's knowledge? That was the question.
He glanced at the marquis, who was still sitting gazing into the embers, and he remembered that Bluet had said again, before he left thecalottewith the remains of the supper, "Break it to him if you can." Well, he would try and break it to him; only, he prayed Heaven that in the breaking he might not kill the old man with the shock. And, if that did not happen, then--why, then, perhaps, through him the cardinal might be apprised of how a faithful adherent of the cause he had championed was wrongfully immured in the Bastille--immured, neglected, and forgotten.
"Monsieur de Chevagny," he said, drawing up another chair by the side of the old man, "are you fatigued to-night? You seem so--seem more weary than usual. You are not ill?" In truth, the old marquis had been presenting signs of late that his strength was failing rapidly, and that he was fast nearing the only escape from the Bastille that had for forty-five years seemed likely to come to him; and to-night he appeared even more feeble, as well as more absent-minded and lethargic, than ever; also he was more dazed than was his wont. But he replied:
"No, no, not ill--or only so from having lived for seventy years; and also from having passed forty-five of those years in prison. A long while! A long while! A lifetime! My father's whole life was not so long."
"Yet," said Bertie soothingly, "it may still be prolonged; it may----"
"Would you desire for me that it should be prolonged?" the other asked, lifting his eyes to Bertie's. "Is that to be wished, think you?"
For a moment the younger man hesitated, then he said, speaking very gently:
"Yes, if--if you could find happiness thereby. For suppose--only suppose--that some great chance should come to you; some undreamed of, unsuspected chance, by which you might be enabled to see once more the wife you so tenderly loved, the little child you left sleeping on her bosom----"
"Stop! For God's sake, stop!" De Chevagny exclaimed. "You torture me; you wring my heart worse, far worse, than ever Bluet did. You conjure up hopes that my senses tell me can never be realized; you bring before me thoughts and ideas that I have been trying to bury and put away for many, many years now."
And, as he spoke, Bertie saw his old eyes fill with tears; again saw those tears drop from his eyelids to his snowy beard.
"Oh, my friend, my fellow-prisoner," he said, "believe me, I would not torture you unnecessarily. Think you that I, before whom this living tomb yawns as it yawned before you years ago--that I, who, Great Powers! may be here, in this very room, forty years hence--would say one word to distress you? No, no. Never, never! But, listen to me, I beseech you; and, above all, listen to me calmly. I have something to tell you, something that I pray earnestly may make you very, very happy."
As he spoke he dropped on one knee by the old man's side, while, taking one of his hands in his, he passed his arm round the other's waist, and, drawing him to him, supported his now trembling form as a son might have done. And as he did so he felt how worn and thin his poor old body was.
"What is it?" whispered the marquis. "What is it? You--you frighten me! I--I cannot bear a shock."
"Pray, pray," continued Bertie, "do not be frightened nor alarmed. Indeed, you have no cause. But, oh, my dear and honoured friend and companion, there has come strange news into this place, strange news for you--nay, start not! Strange news! It is said--strive to be calm, I beseech you--that, that--be brave! as you have been so long--your release is at hand. It may come soon, at any moment now."
He felt the old man's feeble frame quiver in his grasp; he felt him draw a long breath, and saw him close his eyes. Then for a long while he was silent, sitting enfolded in the other's arms as though he were asleep or dead. But at last he spoke:
"If it should be so, if this is true, what will become of me? Can I hope to find my wife alive? And for my little child that was--she is almost old now, if she still lives. She will not know me; will not, perhaps, believe I am her father."
"Oh, how can she doubt it? And for your wife--she need not be dead; how many women live far beyond your own age--why, my mother is near it. Look hopefully forward, therefore, I beg of you, to your release; think of what happiness may be yours still."
But, although Bertie used every argument to prove to De Chevagny that there must be still some period of such happiness before him, however short that period might be, he could not bring him to so regard his forthcoming release. Above all, he could not make him believe for one instant that he would ever meet his wife or child upon earth; and he reiterated again and again that, if he could not have them with him, he would almost prefer to remain a prisoner.
"I have grown used to the filth and squalor of this place," he said, "to my wretched rags. My hotel across the river, even if it has not been long since confiscated, would be no fit abode for me. Better remain here without hope, better forget that I was ever a free man, loving others and beloved myself, than go forth into the world where I am unknown. And," he said tenderly, "I have at least one friend here--I have you."
On the next day, however, when Bluet had told him that beyond all doubt he was to be taken before D'Argenson that night, he began to show a little more interest in what was occurring, and, at last, to look forward eagerly to the hour when the Examiner should arrive.
"For," he said, "I shall have a piteous tale to tell him; perhaps when he hears it he may be disposed to look into the cases of some others who are here. There is that poor man Falmy, over the way; he, too, should be released."
At six o'clock the King's Lieutenant paid a visit to thecalotte--De Launey had never been known to visit a "guest" from the time he was first received by him--and asked the marquis whether he would choose to have a change of linen and some fresher clothes in which to appear before the judges; but this offer he firmly refused.
"As I am," he said, "as I have been for so many years," and he held up his arm, from which his sleeve hung in a hundred tatters; "so I will go before him, and, if he releases me, so I will go forth into the world again."
"That," said the King's Lieutenant, politely and with a slight smile, "Monsieur le Marquis must know will not be permitted. No guest leaves us who does not sign a paper in which he undertakes most solemnly to divulge nothing of what has occurred within. He would scarcely, therefore, be allowed to depart in such a garb as that in which Monsieur le Marquis is now unhappily clad. Besides, the illustrious family of De Chevagny is rich; the head of the house will scarcely adorn himself with such raiment when he goes back to his proper position."
"Rich!" the old man echoed with bitter scorn--"rich! What have I to do with riches now? If I find not my wife or child, I shall not live a week in my unaccustomed lot. A garret such as this will do well enough for me."
The Lieutenant departed after this, saying that the marquis--as he was scrupulous now to call him on every occasion--might expect to be sent for early in the evening; and those two, who had grown to be such friends, sat down to pass what, with the exception of the night, would probably be their last hours together. All was arranged between them as to what was to be done on Elphinston's behalf when once De Chevagny was free--he was first to seek out his mother and Kate, being careful to say nothing to the latter about her husband and his end until he discovered what she knew about him, and in any circumstances to be very discreet in what he revealed. Then he was to strive in every way to bring Elphinston's case before Tencin, so that something might be done as soon as possible.
"For," said Bertie, "never will I believe that when once his Eminence knows that I have been thrust in here under what must be, cannot help but be, a false charge, a mistake, he will allow me to remain. Oh, my friend, my friend, lose no time, I beseech you, in releasing me from this death in life!"
"Have no fear," replied De Chevagny, "I shall remember. First your mother, Madame Elphinston, at Passy; then to her who was that creature's wife; then--then to the King or to--what is his name?--Tencin! Tencin! I shall not forget. Yet, oh, my friend, how shall I leave you here--alone! And you so young--so young! Not yet in your prime."
"Fear not for me," replied Elphinston, assuming a hopefulness he by no means felt; for he doubted if, even with the Marquis de Chevagny at liberty and free to plead his cause, his release was likely to be obtained. If there was, indeed, as the King's Lieutenant had hinted, some terrible and powerful enemy in the background whom he had injured without knowing it, it was possible that even Tencin's exertions and influence might be of no avail. Yet still he sought to cheer the other.
"Fear not for me. Once you are free to bring my case before the King I have no fear myself"--then he started, for he heard the clanging of the doors. "Hark!" he said, "hark! They are coming for you. Oh, I pray God that when you return from your examination you may do so with your liberty assured--as it must be! As it must be! Otherwise they would not send for you at all," and he kissed the old man's hand as he spoke, and whispered to him to be calm.
"God bless you!" the marquis replied--"God bless you! I will be brave."
As he did so the door was unlocked, and once more the King's Lieutenant came in, accompanied by four turnkeys, one of whom was Bluet, who behind the officer's back kept gesticulating and nodding his head and winking at Bertie--who stood a little behind De Chevagny--in an extraordinary manner.
"The fellow had indeed a good heart," he thought to himself, "which even the miseries he is witness of in this living hell are unable to suppress. One would think that De Chevagny was his dearest friend, so overjoyed is he." And still, as he reflected thus, Bluet's grimaces and becks and nods continued.
"Réné Xavier Ru de Chevagny, Marquis de Chevagny," read out the King's Lieutenant from a paper in his hand, "the Viscomte d'Argenson, Judge and Examiner of his Majesty's fortresses, desires your presence."
"I--I have waited the summons long," the marquis said, with quiet dignity; "I am ready to obey it."
And he turned round to touch Bertie's hand in a temporary farewell, when again the voice of the King's Lieutenant was heard reading from the paper:
"Elphinston--baptismal name uncertain--captain of the Regiment of Picardy, formerly of the Regiment of Scots Dutch----"
"What!" exclaimed Elphinston, dazed by being summoned at last so unexpectedly, and also at the last description--"what!"
--"the Vicomte d'Argenson, Judge and Examiner of his Majesty's fortresses, desires your presence."
"I, too, am ready," he replied in a low voice.
"Avancez!" said the Lieutenant, and at the word the party left thecalotteand descended the massive stairs, the officer with two turnkeys leading the way, while Bluet and another followed.
And as they went to the Hall of Judgment, Bertie whispered to the marquis:
"I begin to understand. I know now why I have been here so long. It was another Elphinston, not I, who served in the Scots Dutch--the Elphinston who eloped with the daughter of the Duc de Baufremont!"
When the stairs had been descended, at the foot of which were several soldiers who, as ever, removed their hats and placed them before their faces so as not to observe the prisoners, they passed through a little door into a great court and, traversing this, entered what was known and served as the arsenal or armoury. There Bertie observed a number of gorgeously dressed footmen and coachmen seated about, whom he supposed to belong to the judges, as well as a number of exempts and several messengers of the Bastille, known to all Paris by the badge they wore--a brass plate, having on it an engraved club full of points and spikes, with round it the motto "Monstrorum Terror"--most of whom, perhaps from long habit, regarded the party very indifferently. Leaving this place behind, they traversed another court, and then, after the King's Lieutenant had struck three times on an iron-studded door, they were admitted to a large, stately hall well warmed and lighted. It was the hall known as theSalle de Justice.
At one end of the hall, seated in great padded chairs let into niches, were four judges clad in scarlet robes, with huge wigs upon their heads, while one, who was undoubtedly D'Argenson, wore above his wig a richly laced three-cornered hat, as a symbol that he represented the sovereign. At his feet sat his registrar, or secretary, with a long table before him covered with a great crimson cloth that hung down to the ground, and also with innumerable papers, while at either end of the table stood sergeants-at-arms with maces. In the midst of the court, or hall, near to these, was a railed-in space, within it two small wooden stools, and to these the sergeants motioned that both De Chevagny and Bertie should approach, while, as they did so, the registrar handed up to each of the judges papers which were copies of the interrogatories about to be administered. At another table, with some papers also before him, sat De Launey, shivering and shaking and smiling in exactly the same way that Bertie had seen him do more than two years ago. Poor wretch! smiles and shivers were alike to be soon over for him now; in another few months the worst form of paralysis was to end his life.
As De Chevagny and Bertie took their seats upon the stools in the inclosure, the judges half rose and bowed to them (a ceremony always observed, except when the worst class ofdétenuswere brought before them), and, on their salutation being returned, D'Argenson, glancing down his paper of interrogatories, prepared to address De Chevagny, the first on his list. This judge, who sat as president, and was reported to work harder than any other twenty men in the French King's service, sitting, indeed, in the law courts during the whole of each day, and being able, consequently, to only make his examinations of the prisons at night, was a strange man to observe. His complexion was as swarthy as a mulatto's, his eyes enormously large and black, his eyebrows each as big as an ordinary man's moustache, while his reputation for austerity had spread through the whole kingdom. Yet he possessed also, in contradistinction to his appearance, a voice as soft and sweet as a girl's, or De Launey's own, and hands--one of which, covered with brilliants, generally lay extended on the desk before him--as white as marble.
"Monsieur the Marquis de Chevagny," he began now--while as he did so the old man rose from the stool and faced him as he leaned upon the rail--"Monsieur de Chevagny, you have been a resident in this fortress for a long period. I perceive you came here on the 30th of January, 1704," and the silvery tones ceased for a moment as though awaiting an answer.
"It is true," De Chevagny replied, "true." And he bent his head.
"The charge against you was the writing of a contumelious lampoon upon the then Marquise de la Vallière and holding her up to contempt and derision. For that the lettre de cachet concerning you was signed by--by a then illustrious personage. That letter was an open one, unlimited as to the continuance of its effect----"
"The charge was true," murmured the marquis, "the punishment cruel beyond all thought."
"Monsieur le Marquis," interposed the judge, while his voice sounded even sweeter, more silvery than before, "I must remind you of what doubtless in the passage of years you have forgotten: There must be no criticism here, no discussion of those who are, or once were, all-powerful. Monsieur, I represent the King's Majesty; let me beg of you to offend--unintentionally, no doubt--no more."
He paused a moment, and it seemed as if some bird had ceased to warble its innocent notes; then he continued:
"The family of La Vallière is now practically extinct. The King, in his sublime goodness, is therefore pleased to ordain that you shall no longer be asked to remain here. Monsieur le Marquis de Chevagny, permit me to congratulate you. You may depart at any time most convenient to you."
The old man raised his hand to his long white beard and stroked it thoughtfully for a moment; then he, in his clear aristocratic tones, replied:
"You congratulate me, monsieur, on what? On a wasted, ruined life, perhaps; a prison for forty-five years; an existence given me by God and taken away by man; a home desolated; a broken heart--nay, two, if not three, broken hearts; and all for what? A youthful folly, a joke made in the exuberance of a young man's spirit. Oh, monsieur, spare me your congratulations! If you were even born when I first came here, think, think of the passage of those years, think of what lives you have known, think of the use they have been put to, and then reflect on mine. Surely your congratulations are the last bitter drop."
"Monsieur de Chevagny," replied the judge, "I must not argue with you. Yet one word I will say: I had no part in sending you here; my share is only to tell you that you are free." And he took up in his jewelled hand a fresh batch of papers, and, stooping forward, whispered something to the registrar.
As the old man tottered back to the stool he had risen from, that functionary said:
"Elphinston, captain of the Regiment of Picardy, formerly of the Regiment of Scots Dutch, answer to your name."
"My name," said Bertie, advancing to the rail and standing as the marquis had previously stood, "is Elphinston, and I am of the Regiment of Picardy. I never served in the Scots Dutch Regiment."
With an almost imperceptible start D'Argenson bent his dark, luminous eyes on him, as did all the other judges, who had sat like dead men in their seats, while De Launey, with the King's Lieutenant and the registrar, also cast surprised looks on him.
"You say that you were never in the regiment of Scots Dutch, monsieur?" asked D'Argenson, still holding the papers in his hand and glancing at them; "what, then, is yournom de baptême?"
"Bertie."
The judge glanced again at the papers, then he conferred for a moment with the other judges, and then spoke again:
"Pardon us our ignorance of your Scotch name, monsieur; but this name 'Bertie' we do not know it. Albert we know, but not Bertie. Is that the whole name, or a part of one--an abbreviation?"
"My name is Bertie,tout court."
The white hand of the judge rubbed his chin softly, and he said:
"You were never in the Scots Dutch Regiment? And,par exemple, you will perhaps also tell us if you are the husband of Mademoiselle de Baufremont, daughter of the duke of that name."
"I am not. I am the husband of no woman."
A visible stir went through the others in theSalle de Justiceat these words, while D'Argenson shrugged his shoulders. Then, sweetly as ever, he continued:
"There are many noble Scotch gentlemen serving his Majesty. Would it be known to you if there were any others of your name--your family name--in the army?"
"I know of one other," Bertie replied. "Hewas in the Scots Dutch."
"Ha!" exclaimed D'Argenson. "And his first name, what is that?"
"Basil."
D'Argenson threw down his papers and for several minutes conferred again with the other judges; and during the time he did so Bertie could not but muse on how the Bastille and its accursed uses had been lent to one more crime, one more mistake that was in itself a crime. For that he had suffered for the man who was his namesake there could now be no doubt; the only wonder in his mind was that it had never occurred to him before, never dawned upon him that such was the case. And now he only prayed that the judges might never have it come to their knowledge that, innocently enough, he had rendered assistance to that other Elphinston.
"God knows," he mused, "that I have suffered sufficiently already by doing so; 'twas through that assistance that I lost my love; surely I shall not also have to suffer further; surely the Duke de Baufremont's vengeance will not be permitted to still fall heavily on me." And once more he prayed that his share in the transaction might not be known.
Then D'Argenson spoke again:
"Monsieur le Capitaine," he said, "your answers to my interrogatories appear to show that, by grave misfortune, you have been confused with another man. Such errors are always to be regretted; nay, more, when they have been made, it is always the custom of his Majesty--a most gracious sovereign!--to make atonement for them and to nobly recompense those who have been injured. I shall to-morrow take steps to ratify your statement: if I find it accurate, you may expect to go away from here in a very short time. His Majesty will sign your acquittance at once. You will be free."
"Sir," replied Bertie, "I might have been free two years and a half ago, might never have suffered this long misery--while much other misery might have also been spared to those whom I love and who love me--had this examination taken place when I was first brought here."
"Doubtless," D'Argenson replied coldly. "But the laws of France have their mode of procedure and cannot be altered for any case in particular.Monsieur le Capitaine, your examination is concluded," and turning to his brother judges, he said, as he rose:
"Mes frères, la séance est terminée."
Of what use was it, Bertie asked himself as he and De Chevagny were conducted back to thecalotte, to rage or fret against this legal wall of adamant? As well hurl one's self against a rock and hope to make an impression on it. For a fault not his own, he had been forced to endure two years and more of miserable imprisonment, and now, by chance alone, he was likely to be set free.
Yet the very word "free" sent his blood dancing and tingling in his veins once more; it brought to him the happy hope of seeing his mother, his beloved Kate again. And when he saw her, there would be no further barrier between them; she, too, was free--free to become his wife. Then, at last, their long vexations would be over--at last--at last!
"Make yourselves as comfortable as you can,mes enfants," said Bluet to them when once more they were back in thecalotte, "it will not be for long now. Meanwhile, to-morrow, I will see if I cannot snatch from that villainous cellarer a bottle of the bestvin de Brecquinywherewith to celebrate your sortie. And I--though I am but a poor drinker at best--will drink to your happy restoration to your friends and families."
As the turnkey had said, so it happened. From the next morning their meals were improved; the best wine was served to them; everything gave promise that their imprisonment was at an end. One morning--which was the third day from their examination by D'Argenson--Bluet, accompanied by another turnkey, came in, bearing a large basket, in which was a quantity of new linen, with some ruffles and lace for both of them. Then, next, the tailor was brought in to prepare a plain but serviceable suit for the marquis, and also to repair Bertie's clothes, his suit being, though much used, still wearable. And, to complete all, Bluet arrived on another morning with the necessary implements for cutting and trimming their hair and beards, which, with the exception of the attentions they had been able to render each other with a rusty pair of scissors they had discovered imbedded in the filth of the floor, had not been done at all since the younger prisoner had been there.
"Avec ça!" exclaimed their cheerful janitor, "messieurs will go forth into the world again as though to afêteor a wedding.Ma foi!Monsieur le Marquis, you look not fifty years of age. You will both do very well. Ah, but the brave day is at hand!"
And at last it came. One evening, a week now after the judge had pronounced that the Marquis de Chevagny might go back to life, and had said that the Captain Elphinston might cherish hopes of doing so, the King's Lieutenant again made his appearance in thecalotte, unaccompanied this time by anyone but Bluet, for the purpose of unbarring the doors.
"Messieurs," he said, "have the goodness to accompany me to theSalle de Justice. The commissary attends you to hand to you yourpermission de sortie. You will depart to-morrow, if it so pleases you."
Rising, they followed him through all the passages and courts as before, and arrived at the great hall. Here they observed that the judges were not again present, but in their place, and seated at the scarlet-draped table of the judges' registrar was the commissary, a little, old, wizened man, who bowed to them as they entered.
"Be seated, I beg," he said, motioning them to two chairs placed in front of him--twofauteuilsvery different in appearance and comfort from the stools that had previously been accorded them; and when they had done so, he instantly read from two papers before him:
"Réné Xavier Ru de Chevagny, Marquis de Chevagny," he began; "his Majesty, King Louis XV, graciously accords you this his permission to depart out of this fortress, the Bastille, from this present moment. This permission I now hand to you as a certificate of his Majesty's gracious goodness." Here he held the paper out over the table to the old man, who took it from him without uttering one word. Then the commissary continued: "And in consideration of your having been unable to attend to your own interests, properties, and estates of late, his Majesty ordains that you may draw upon the captain of this his fortress, Monsieur Jourdan de Launey, for a sum not exceeding fiftyLouis d'ors, for your present expenses, to be by you recouped later on."
"I--I want nothing," De Chevagny began, when, as he did so, his eye fell upon Bluet standing near and behind the King's Lieutenant, and remembering all the fellow's kindness to him--kindness which he had never been under any obligation to show he ceased what he was saying; while the commissary continued:
"From this moment you are at liberty to depart. Monsieur le Marquis you will consult your own pleasure as to when you do so."
Then turning to Bertie and addressing him, he again read out the rigmarole about "his Majesty's gracious goodness," and handed to him his certificate of freedom. And also he informed him that he, too, could draw on De Launey for fiftyLouis d'ors, to be recorded later on.
"If, monsieur," Bertie exclaimed, however, at this, "I draw them, I know not how they are ever to be refunded. I was an officer in the French King's army when I was brought here. I can scarcely suppose I am one now. When I quit this prison I am as like as not to be a beggar in the streets. This incarceration has stolen my life from me for two years; now I am free, its effect will be to deprive me of the means whereby to live in the future."
"Monsieur le Capitaine, I think not. I am authorized to tell you that a commission in his Majesty's service will still be provided for you, in consequence of your residence here being due to a slight mistake."
"So be it," said Bertie; "I rejoice to hear that so much justice will be done to me." Yet, as he spoke, he took a vow that never more would he serve the French King, never more draw sword for a country in which such errors could happen as that which had imprisoned him for those two years.
"Now," said the commissary, "you must please to sign these papers, and to swear upon your honours that you will neither reveal, when outside this fortress, any of the situations of the various chambers, apartments, towers, halls, or courts of which you have obtained any knowledge, nor the names of any other persons here with which you have become acquainted in any way. Also you must, upon your honours, state that you carry no messages from anyone within this fortress to anyone whatsoever outside of it, either written or verbal. And when you do go forth at the time it shall please you, you will also sign another paper stating that you have been deprived of nothing, neither money, clothes, jewellery, nor trinkets of which you were in possession when you arrived."
De Chevagny shrugged his shoulders as he answered:
"I may sign with safety. I have no recollection of anything I had about me when I came here in the year 1704. I know not what I had. And what matters it? What matters it?"
"As for me," said Elphinston, "I had but a few gold pieces in my purse when I came here, and they have been exhausted long ago in payment for my bed. There can be nothing left; and if there is, I want it not."
That night, however, both he and De Chevagny decided to draw each upon De Launey for tenLouis d'ors, with which to reward the faithful Bluet, and also--for such was the custom even in this hateful place-to give a treat to the turnkeys. So, ere they slept for the last time in their miserable chamber, these men were called in, and, bringing with them various sorts of wine, chocolate, pasties, and ratafias, were rewarded also with pieces of money, while they drank to the health of those whom they termed the "parting guests."
One other had, however, to be taken a sad farewell of--one whom there was no likelihood of their ever meeting again in this world--the unhappy Genevese, Falmy. At daybreak Bertie was at the window looking for him, and a few moments later he appeared at his; and the tears streamed down the former's eyes so as almost to blind him as for the last time he sent his message across to the opposite tower. "Farewell! I leave with De Chevagny," he signalled. "God ever bless you, and may He at last release you! Is there no message for anyone outside?" For, in spite of the promise he had given to take none from any prisoner, he felt absolved from it when he thought of the bitter agony of those incarcerated still. Indeed, such was the feeling of all who went forth from that living death.
But Falmy shook his head sadly; then, listlessly, as though hopeless and heartbroken, he signalled back, "None; I have no friends. If I ever had any, they are dead or have forgotten me. Farewell!" and, with a look upon his face that Bertie never forgot, he left the window.
Down through the corridors and passages they passed, away through thecorps de garde, with, for the last time, their laced hats held before their faces, until they reached the wicket and so to the great gates which opened to admit their exit. And a moment later, as the great clock struck nine above their heads, they stood outside the prison walls.[Note D]They were free!
The turnkey had provided afiacrefor them, and into this they stepped from the outside of the great gate, while Bluet; looking as sad as though he were parting for ever from his dearest friends, asked where the man should be instructed to drive them to? Strange to say, neither had given any thought to this matter, though, had Bertie been alone, no consideration would have been necessary on the subject. His mother's house would have been his destination; for, although often and often in his misery he had mused on whether she was still alive, and on whether she would ever fold him in her arms again, nothing would have kept him from going straight to Passy and at once resolving his doubts.
But now, with De Chevagny by his side--a poor old man cast back into an unknown world after nearly half a century's exclusion from it--he could not leave him; he must be his first consideration.
"Dear friend," he said, while still Bluet stood by the coach door, "have you thought of where we shall proceed to? Will you go to your own home first, or come to mine--if--if--God! if I have any left there. At least we will not part--or not now, not now."
The poor, old marquis wrapped the dark blue cloak they had provided him with around him as the other spoke, for the December morning, although bright and sunny, was cold and crisp, then he said, "Home! to my home? What home have I?"
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Bluet, consoling to the last, "sans doute, a beautiful home. Monsieur must well remember--even I, a prison watch-dog, have heard of it--the Hôtel de Chevagny. Monsieur will doubtless go there. And,parbleu!when I have a day's release from my labours, I shall make a little visit to the marquis. He will be glad to see his old friend and servant, BluetN'est ce pas?"
"Yes," the marquis whispered, dazed, as it seemed to the others, by his freedom--"yes, I shall always be glad to see you, Bluet. Let us go--let us go," and he held out his hand to the turnkey, as did Bertie.
"Hôtel de Chevagny," said Bluet to the driver; "you know it without doubt. Away with you to the house of the noble marquis!"
"De Chevagny!" said the man from his box--"De Chevagny! No, I know it not. What is the quarter?"
"St. Germain, naturally. Monsieur," looking in again at the window, "the name of the street--of the street, monsieur?" he repeated, seeing that the marquis appeared to scarcely understand him. But a moment later he muttered:
"The Rue Charles Martel. That is it."
"Bon!" said the coachman, he having caught the words--"bon!Rue Charles Martel," and as once more Bluet exchanged farewells with them, he lashed his horse and drove off, while De Chevagny cast one last look on the Bastille and shuddered.
"Forty-five years," he murmured, "forty-five years. A young man when I entered there, an old man now--worn out and near his end."
"Nay, nay," said Bertie, "do not think so. Remember, you may find many alive who are still dear to you. Let us pray so at least."
But the marquis, burying his head in the collar of his cloak, spoke no more, though Bertie, regarding him from time to time, saw that he was gazing out and observing the places they passed by; and as they traversed the Pont Neuf, he observed a brighter look in his face than he had hitherto seen. "This, at least, has not changed," he muttered. "It is the same as when I was young--as when I passed over it to go to the Bastille. Forty-five years ago!--forty-five years ago!"
Presently--for it was no great distance from the Quartier St. Antoine to that of St. Germain--the hackney coach arrived at the end of the Rue Charles Martel; a long, sad-looking street, having high walls all along it into which were set great wooden gates, and behind which were large courtyards belonging to the various mansions or hotels of the nobility. Yet, as they entered this street and observed a large, modern, and very gaunt-looking house, De Chevagny seemed more bewildered than ever, and raised his finger to his forehead as though confused.
"I--I--do not understand," he said. "Has the man mistaken the way? Bellancourt's house stood here--years ago--when I was a lad. I have played in the gardens often--oh, so often, with his children! It was an old, old house, built in the days of Henri of Navarre. Where is it? That is not it."
"This is a new building," replied Bertie; "is it not possible the present owner may have removed the old one to make way for this?"
"Yes, yes," De Chevagny whispered--"yes, it is forty-five years ago. I should have remembered. Forty-five years ago. And sixty since I played under the cedars in the garden. My God!"
The hackney carriage rolled along slowly, for in this old-fashioned street the road, like so many in Paris in those days, was far from good, and a slight thaw had now set in which rendered it particularly heavy. Then, looking out, the marquis pointed to an antique mansion the roofs of which could be seen behind the walls.
"See," he said excitedly, "see, it is the house of De Montpouillan, the man whom the King delighted to honour! I was at a ball there three nights before I was taken, and he--Louis, the Grand Monarque--was there too. He danced in the ballet[9]with the daughter of St. Hillaire, a blonde whose hair shone like the gold of a newLouis d'or.Mon Dieu!observe--there is a hatchment over the house. Someone is dead."
Again Bertie tried to soothe him by reminding him that, whomsoever it might be, he could scarcely have known them after his long and terrible absence; yet this consolation, unhappy as it was, only served to remind him of his own sad fate and to set him once more murmuring, "Forty-five years!"
But a moment afterwards he gave a gasp--a cry, indeed--and exclaimed:
"My house! my house! See, see, it is there!" and called feebly to the driver to stop.
Above the walls Bertie could perceive the red tiles of a long, low hotel; could observe also that in many places some of those tiles had fallen away and left great gaps yawning; and also that the whole gave signs of being in a ruinous condition. The huge, double wooden gates hung loosely on their hinges, while one or two beams in them bulged inward from rottenness and the lock, once large and handsome and a triumph of the smith's art, was rusted and almost fallen from its wooden socket.
"Alas! alas!" thought Elphinston to himself, "it is not here that he will find his wife or child. He must look farther for them--perhaps in heaven!--who knows? Poor De Chevagny--poor, unhappy man!"
There hung a great iron bell-handle on the side of the vast door, and the marquis, grasping it, rang a peal that could be heard echoing in the house itself across the courtyard--a peal that met with no response. Then they waited for a minute or two, the marquis leaning on Bertie's arm and gazing up wistfully into his face, as though seeking to read therein what his thoughts might be, and the driver staring over the wall at the unshuttered and uncurtained windows.
"Mon Dieu!" the man muttered to himself so that they could not hear him, "after having dwelt in thepalais des grenouilles[10]so long, it is not strange if the master is no more expected," and he cracked his whip vigorously as though hoping, perhaps, to thereby attract some attention from within.
Still the old man looked up sadly at his companion's face, and muttered, "My home, my home!" so ruefully that the other had to turn away from him so that he should not see his eyes; and then Bertie, seizing the bell handle, rang a strong, lusty peal upon it.
"If there is anyone here," he said, "that should arouse them. The bell has a tongue that might wake the dead!"
He could have bitten his own tongue out a moment later, for at his words, especially the last one, De Chevagny started, and then muttered, "The dead--the dead. Ah! it is the dead who never come back to us. They are gone. All are gone! When shall we meet again? Never, never, never!"
As though in answer to that question which his own weary heart had answered for itself, a door was heard to open in the front of the house--it creaked wofully on its hinges--and then steps were also heard upon the stones of the courtyard, the steps of someone in sabots, and next the key was turned in the rusty lock and one half of the great gate pulled back; following upon which, a woman of about forty years of age appeared at the doorway, and, after regarding thefiacreand the young man with the old one now leaning so heavily on his arm, asked them what they desired.
"To come into my own house," said the latter, looking at her, though he could see at once that she had been born since he last stood upon that spot. "I am the Marquis de Chevagny."
She was not an uncomely-looking woman, neither did she appear hard nor severe; still she answered, with a look of suspicion in her face:
"There is no Marquis de Chevagny. The title exists no longer."
"Yet," said the old man feebly, "I am he. This is my house. Woman, I have but left the Bastille an hour ago. I have been a prisoner there for forty-five years."
She took a step backward, as though to regard him more particularly, while her brow wrinkled a little and her colour came and went, as she exclaimed, "My God, it is not possible!"
"It is true," he said. "I pray you let me enter. I am very old and feeble--older than even I should be by my years--and--and thisismy house. Do not refuse me!"
"Enter," the woman said, pulling wider open the door. "And this--monsieur," glancing at Bertie, "who is he?"
"I also have been a prisoner in the Bastille, though for only a short space of time in comparison with his. I beseech you," he said, sinking his voice to a whisper, "answer him very gently--especially when he asks you of--of his family."
"I understand," the woman said in return as she walked by their side across the courtyard, in which one or two fowls were strutting about--"I understand. Is he truly the marquis?"
"He is, indeed."
"God help him!" and as she spoke, they reached the door of the house.
They entered a great hall with a tiled floor and, above it at the back, a window of stained glass, some panes of which were broken--a hall in which there was no furniture except a plain oaken bench, that looked as though it had been used to chop wood upon; and on to this the Marquis de Chevagny sank, exhausted already, while Bertie, saddened at such a home-coming as this, stood by to cheer and comfort him if possible.
"This is not as I left it," the old man said as his glance roved round the spacious but empty hall. "Has there been no one to guard it?" Then, as though such trifles were unworthy of consideration, he asked eagerly, while a strange light shone from his eyes: "I had a wife, a child, when they took me from here. Are they--they--still alive?"
"Is it possible monsieur does not know?"
"Know! What should I know? Woman, I tell you I have been dead to the world for forty-five years--buried alive in a place to which no news ever comes. Where," he continued, "where are my wife and child?"
"Alas! monsieur," she said, seeming while she spoke as though endeavouring to avoid answering him, "I have heard of you from my father; he wasgarde chasseat the Château de Chevagny many years ago."
"Lenoir! Was he your father?"
"Yes, monsieur, but he has been dead these twenty years; and then----"
"My wife and child!" he interrupted--"my wife and child! Are they dead, too?"
"Alas! monsieur, I never saw Madame la Marquise. She--she--died the year I was born."
De Chevagny straightened himself upon the bench--as he did so there came to Bertie's recollection how his own father had so straightened himself as he died in his arms a few years before, and he wondered why he recalled that incident at this moment--then the marquis said:
"The year you were born? How old are you?"
"Forty-one, monsieur."
"Forty-one!" he whispered, "forty-one! So! she lived four years. Four years. And I--I--have been hoping, praying--O God! how I have prayed!--to see her again--to see her again, while for forty-one years she has been lying in her grave--in her grave!"
He paused awhile, perhaps because he heard the sobs of Bertie and the woman mingling with his own; then he said:
"And the little child--my dear, dear little babe! Is--is she dead, too?"
"Non, monsieur--at least I think not. She----"
"Thank God!"
"She married, very young, the Vicomte de Brunet," the woman answered through her tears, "and went with him to Guadeloupe; and sometimes, at intervals, she writes to her friends in Paris, and they send me news of her. Also, she has once written to me."
"And she is well? Has she children of her own, perhaps?"
"No, monsieur. Her marriage has not been so blessed by thebon Dieu!"
He sat thinking awhile, meditating deeply ere he spoke again; then he said:
"But this house and the château--they were good properties; we have drawn large sums from them for generations. Who takes the rents, the produce, now--to whom do they belong?"
"To the state, I have heard, monsieur; to the King; though, it is said, in trust only. Yet, I know not. I cannot say. But I suppose so. Twice annually a monsieur comes from the minister of the King to visit us, and twice, also, I hear, one visits the château. If all has been saved for you, monsieur, during your long absence, you should be very rich."
"Rich," he repeated--"rich! very rich! Yes, yes, very rich." Then, turning on the woman suddenly, almost fiercely for him, he asked:
"Where--where, do you know--did my wife die? Where did my little child live until she married? If the state, the King, took possession of my property, they would not let them stay here nor at the château."
"Madame la Marquise went back to stay with her father after monsieur had gone away. Mademoiselle de Chevagny lived with him also until she married." Then, observing that the old man looked even more feeble and drawn than she had at first noticed, she said: "But, monsieur, do not stay here in this cold hall. Come into the saloon, I beg of you. There is no fire, but I can soon make one. Come, monsieur, come."
Slowly leaning on Bertie's arm, he rose at her behest--and now the latter perceived that he weighed more heavily on him than before--and, all together, they went into a fair-sizedsalon, or morning-room, to the left of the corridor; while the woman, preceding them, made haste to open the window shutters and to let a flood of light from the wintry sun pour into the room.
It seemed to have been left much as it must have been in those long-past years, when so dreadful a doom had fallen upon that unhappy family--perhaps had scarcely undergone any alteration since those days. Upon the walls there hung several pictures: one, of a man in half armour, bearing a strong resemblance to him who now tottered on Bertie's arm; another, of an elderly woman, of a long anterior date; a third, of a young man in all the bravery of the rich apparel of Louis XIV's date, a young man with bright blue eyes and a joyous smile--De Chevagny himself. Also, there were many chairs, none very comfortable, since, fifty years before this time, comfortable chairs were almost unknown articles; a table or so and a tabouret; also a woman's worktable in a corner by the fireplace with, above it, a painting of a fair young girl with a soft, gentle expression, done in what was, at the period in which it was painted, quite a new style--the style of Antoine Watteau--and much embellished with a rural landscape behind the portrait.
With a gasp, a cry of recognition, De Chevagny regarded this portrait in the light of the thin December sun, and then, leaning now so heavily on Bertie's arm as to be almost entirely held up and supported by him, he exclaimed:
"See! see! She has come back to me; we have met again! Again, Jeanne, my love, my wife, my dear! O Jeanne, Jeanne, we shall be so happy now!"
The woman and Bertie regarded each other significantly, though neither could speak from emotion, while De Chevagny addressed the latter, saying:
"See! there is the table where nightly she sits and works, making little things for the child that is to come--the babe that shall make us so happy. Here," and he put his finger on a gilt nail by the chimney-piece, "where she hangs her workbasket at night; here," and he pointed to a low stool, "where I sit by her side and tell her all I have done at the court."
He broke off, and appeared to be listening.
"Hark!" he said, "hark! It is striking eleven--we are going to bed--the greatclocheis ringing; there is a noise in the courtyard. God!" he screamed, "it is full of torches; the exempts are there; they have come to seize me--to drag me to the Bastille--to part us! Hide! oh, hide me!"
"Courage, courage, dear friend," said Bertie, soothingly, as he held him in his arms, and noticed once again how heavy and inert his poor form was--"courage, courage! They will never come for you again. You are free forever now. Dispel these illusions. Be brave."
"Free," he repeated, "free!" and his wandering blue eyes sought Bertie's once more, while in them there was again that wistful look which so wrung his heart. "Free! yes, I am free!" and as he spoke he released himself from Elphinston's grasp and flung himself upon his knees before his wife's picture.
"My darling," he murmured, gazing up at it, "ma mignonne, we shall never part more. I am free! free! free! And so happy! oh, so happy!" and he clasped his hands together and bent over the low chair before the picture. And once again he looked up and murmured, "So--so happy now!"
When at last they ventured to speak to him, and, getting no answer, to raise his head, they saw upon his face so sweet and placid a smile that, remembering all, Bertie would not have wished to call him back to the world in which he had suffered so much.