We must now, for a little, change the scene entirely; and, as we find often done most naturally, both in reality and poetry, bring the prison and the palace side by side. It was in one of the smaller chambers, then, of the palace at Versailles--exquisitely fitted up with furniture of the most costly, if not of the most splendid materials, with very great taste shown in every thing, grace in all the ornaments, harmony in all the colours, and a certain degree of justness and appropriateness in every object around--that there sat a lady, late on the evening of an autumnal day, busily reading from a book, illustrated with some of the richest and most beautiful miniatures that the artists of the French capital could then produce.
She was, at the time we speak, of somewhat past the middle age,--that is to say, she was nearly approaching to the age of fifty, but she looked considerably younger than she really was, and forty was the very extreme at which any one by the mere look would have ventured to place the number of her years. The rich worked candelabra of gold under which she was reading cast its light upon not a single grey hair. The form was full and rounded; the arms white and delicate; the hand, which in general loses its symmetry sooner than aught else, except, perhaps, the lips, was as tapering, as soft, and as beautiful in contour as ever. The eyes were large and expressive, and there was a thoughtfulness about the whole countenance which had nothing of melancholy in its character, perhaps a little of worldliness, but more of mind and intellect than either.
After she had been reading for some time, the door was quietly opened, and the King himself entered with a soft and almost noiseless step. The lady immediately laid down her book and rose, but the King took her by the hand, led her back to her chair, and seated himself beside her.
"Still busy, reading," he said.
"I am anxious to do so, your Majesty," she answered, "at every moment that I can possibly command. In the sort of life which I am destined to lead, and in your Majesty's splendid court, temptations to forget what is right, and to think of nothing but pleasures and enjoyments, are so manifold, that one has need to have recourse to such calmer counsellors as these," and she laid her hand upon the book, "counsellors who are not disturbed by such seductions, and whose words have with them a portion of the tranquillity of the dead."
The words were of a soberer character than Louis had been accustomed to hear from the lips of woman during the greater part of his life, but still they did not displease him, and he replied only by saying,--
"But we must have a few more living counsels at present, Madame, for the fate of Louis----"
"Which is the fate of France," she said in so low a voice that it could scarcely be termed an interruption.
"For the fate of Louis and of his domestic happiness--a word, alas, which is so little known to kings--is even now in the balance. Madame," he continued, taking that fair hand in his, "Madame, it is scarcely necessary at this hour to tell you that I love you; it is scarcely necessary to speak what are the wishes and the hopes of the King; scarcely necessary to say what would be his conduct were not motives, strong and almost overpowering, opposed to all that he most desires."
Madame de Maintenon, for she it was, had risen from her seat; had withdrawn her hand from that of the King, and for a moment pressed both her hands tightly upon her heart, while her countenance, which had become as pale as death, spoke that the emotion which she felt was real.
"Cease, Sire; oh, cease," she exclaimed, "if you would not have me drop at your feet! Indeed," she continued more vehemently, "that is my proper place," and she cast herself at once upon her knees before the King, taking the hand from which she had just disengaged her own, to bend her lips over it with a look of reverence and affection.
"Hear me, Sire, hear me," she said, as the King endeavoured to raise her, "hear me even as I am; for notwithstanding the deep and sincere love and veneration which are in my heart, I must yet offend in one person the monarch whom every voice in Europe proclaims the greatest in the earth; the man whom my own heart tells me is the most worthy to be loved. There is one, however, Sire, who must be loved and venerated first, and beyond all--I mean the Almighty; and from his law, and from his commands, nothing on earth shall ever induce me to swerve. Now, for more than a year, such has been my constant reply to your Majesty on these occasions. I have besought you, I have entreated you never to speak on such subjects again, unless that were possible which I know to be impossible."
"Nay," replied the Monarch, interrupting her, and raising her with a little gentle force, "nay, nothing is impossible, but for me to see you kneeling there."
"Oh yes, indeed, indeed, it is, your Majesty!" she said; "I have long known it, I have long been sure of it. You once condescended to dream of it yourself; you mentioned it to me, and I for a single instant was deceived by hope; but as soon as I came to examine it, I became convinced, fully convinced, that such a thing was utterly and entirely impossible, that your Majesty should descend from your high station, and that you should oppose and over-rule the advice and opinion of courtiers and ministers, who, though perhaps a little touched with jealousy, can easily find sound and rational reasons enough to oppose your will in this instance. Oh, no, no, Sire, I know it is impossible; for Heaven's sake do not agitate me by a dream of happiness that can never be realised!"
"So little is it impossible, dear friend," replied the King, "that it is scarcely half an hour ago since I spoke with Louvois upon the subject."
"And what did he say?" exclaimed Madame de Maintenon, with an eagerness that she could not master. "He opposed it, of course--and doubtless wisely. But oh, Sire, you must grant me a favour: the last of many, but still a very great one. You must let me retire from your court, from this place of cruel and terrible temptation, where they look upon me, from the favour which your Majesty has been pleased to show me, in a light which I dare not name. No, Sire, no, I will never have it said, that I lived on at your court knowing that I bore the name of your concubine. However false, the imputation is too terrible to be undergone--I, who have ever raised my voice against such acts, I, who have risked offending your Majesty by remonstrances and exhortations. No, Sire, no! I cannot, indeed I cannot, undergo it any longer. It is terrible to me, it is injurious to your Majesty, who has so nobly triumphed over yourself in another instance. It matters not what Monsieur de Louvois has said, though I trust he said nothing on earth to lead you to believe that I am capable of yielding to unlawful love."
"Oh no," replied the King, "his opposition was but to the marriage, and that as usual was rude, gross, and insulting to his King. I wonder that I have patience with him. But it will some day soon give way."
"I hope and trust, Sire," cried Madame de Maintenon, clasping her hands earnestly, "I hope and trust that your Majesty has not suffered insult on my account. Then, indeed, it were high time that I should go."
"No," replied Louis, "not absolute insult. Louvois means but to act well. He said every thing in opposition, I acknowledge, coarsely and rudely, and in the end he cast himself upon his knees before me, unsheathed his sword, and, offering the hilt, besought me to take his life, rather than to do what I contemplated."
"He did!" cried Madame de Maintenon, with a bright red spot in either cheek. "He did! The famous minister of Louis XIV. has been studying at the theatre lately I know! But still, Sire, though doubtless he was right in some part of his view, Françoise d'Aubigné is not quite so lowly as to be an object of scorn to the son of Michael le Tellier, whose ancestors I believe sold drugs at Rheims, while my grandfather supported the throne of yours with his sword, his blood, and his wisdom. He might have spared his scorn, methinks, and saved his wit for argument. But I must not speak so freely in my own cause, for that it is my own, I acknowledge," and she wiped away some tears from her fine eyes. "It is my own, for when I beseech your Majesty to let me leave you, I tear my own heart, I trample upon all my own feelings. But oh, believe me, Sire," she continued ardently, "believe me when I say, that I would rather that heart were broken, as it soon will be, than that your Majesty should do any thing derogatory to your crown and dignity, or I must add, than I would do myself any thing in violation of the precepts of virtue and religion."
She wept a good deal; but she wept gracefully, and hers was one of those faces which looked none the worse for tears. The King gently drew her to her seat, for she had still been standing; saying, "Nay, nay, be comforted. You have yet the King. You think not really then," he said, "really and sincerely you think not, that there is any true degradation in a monarch wedding a subject? I ask you yourself, I ask you to speak candidly!"
"Nay, Sire," cried Madame de Maintenon, "how can you ask me, deeply interested as I am--how can you ask any woman? For we all feel alike in such things, and differently from you men. There is not one woman, proud or humble in your Majesty's court, that would not give you the same answer, if she spoke sincerely."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the King; "then we men must be certainly in the wrong. But what think you," he continued, "what think you, as a proof--what would yon fair girl Clémence de Marly say, were we to ask her? I saw her but now, as I passed, reading with the Dauphine in somewhat melancholy guise."
"Well may she be melancholy, Sire!" replied the lady, somewhat sadly, "when the King hears not her prayers. But methinks it would be hardly fair to make her a judge."
"Why, why?" demanded Louis quickly; "because she is so proud and haughty?--Remember, you said the proudest in our court."
"So I say still, Sire," replied Madame de Maintenon in a gentle tone; "but I do not think her proud. She would be too favourable a judge; that was my sole objection. Her own station in the court is doubtful; and besides, Sire, you could not think of submitting that, on which none--no, not the wisest minister you have--can judge so well as yourself, to the decision of a girl."
"Fear not," replied the King; "I will but take her voice on the matter, without her knowing aught of that on which her opinion is called for. I would fain hear what a young and unpractised tongue would say. Let her be called in."
Madame de Maintenon hesitated for a moment. The risk seemed great; the object of long years was at stake; and her own fate, and that of France, might depend upon the words of a wild, proud girl. But she saw no means of avoiding the trial; and she rang the bell: even in the very act of doing so, remembering many a trait of Clémence, both in childhood and youth, which gave her some assurance. A page appeared instantly, and was despatched to the apartments of the Dauphine to call Mademoiselle de Marly to the presence of the King.
The feet of Clémence bore her thither like light, though her heart beat wildly with fear and agitation; and the hue of her cheek, once so bright and glowing, was now as pale as death. She was glad, however, to find the King and Madame de Maintenon alone, for she had succeeded in interesting the latter in the fate of the Count de Morseiul, and she doubted not that she would exert herself, as much as she dared to do for any one, to persuade the King to deal with him gently. So many long and weary days had passed, however, with but little progress, that she had well nigh sunk into despair, when the summons of this night made her suppose that her fate, and that of her lover, was upon the eve of being decided.
The page who conducted her closed the door as soon as she had entered, and Clémence stood before the King with feelings of awe and agitation, such as in former days she knew not that she could feel towards the greatest potentate on earth: but Clémence de Marly loved, and her whole feelings had been changed.
Not a little was her surprise, however, when the King addressed her in a tone half playful, half serious,--
"Come hither, spoiled beauty," he said, "come hither: and sit down upon that stool--or, in truth, I should give you up this chair, for you are going to act a part that you never performed before--that of judge, and in a matter of taste, too."
Clémence put her hand to her brow, as if to clear away the thoughts with which she had come thither. But, after gazing in the King's face for a moment with a bewildered look, she recovered herself, and replied,--
"Indeed, Sire, I am, of all people, the most unfit; but I will do my best to please your Majesty. What may be the question?"
"Why," answered the King, smiling at her evident surprise and embarrassment, the real cause of which he had quite forgotten in his own thoughts and feelings, "why the matter is this; a new play has been submitted to us for approval by one of our best poets. It turns upon an ancient king becoming in love with one of his own subjects, and marrying her while his ministers wish him to marry a neighbouring queen. The question of the policy, however, is not the thing. We have settled all that, but the point in dispute between me and this fair lady is, whether the poet would have done better to have made the heroine turn out, after all, to be some princess unknown. I say not; but our sweet friend, whose opinion, perhaps, is better than my own, contends that it would have been better, in order to preserve the king's dignity."
Madame de Maintenon panted for breath, and grasped the book that lay on the table to prevent herself from betraying her agitation; but she dared not say a word, nor even look up.
She was almost instantly relieved, however, for Clémence exclaimed, almost before the King had done speaking,--"Oh, no! oh, no! Dear lady, you are wrong, believe me. Kings lose their dignity only by evil acts; they rise in transcendent majesty when they tread upon base prejudices. I know nothing of the policy; you tell me that is apart; and the only question is whether she was worthy that he chose. Was she, Sire--was she noble and good?"
"Most noble, and most excellent!" said the King.
"Was she religious, wise, well educated?" continued Clémence, eagerly.
"She was all!" answered Louis, "all in a most eminent degree."
"Was she in knowledge, demeanour, character, worthy of his love and of himself?" asked the enthusiastic girl, with her whole face glowing.
"In demeanour not inferior, in character equal, in knowledge superior--in all respects worthy!" replied the Monarch, catching her enthusiasm.
But he was stopped by the agitated sobs of Madame de Maintenon, who, sinking from her chair at his feet, clasped his knees, exclaiming, "Spare me, Sire! Spare me, or I shall die!"
The King gazed at her tenderly for a moment, then bent down his head, kissed her check, and, whispering a few brief words, placed her in the chair where he himself had been sitting. He then turned to Clémence de Marly, who stood by, astonished at the agitation that her words had produced, and fearful that the consequences might be the destruction of all her own hopes.
The countenance of Louis, as he turned towards her, somewhat re-assured her; but still she could not help exclaiming with no slight anxiety, "I hope, Sire, I have not offended. I fear I have done so unintentionally."
"If you have," said the King, smiling upon her graciously, "we will find a punishment for you; and as we have made you act as a judge where you little perhaps expected it, we will now make you a witness of things that you expected still less, but which your lips must never divulge till you are authorised to do so. Go as fast as possible to my oratory close by the little cabinet of audience, there you will find good Monsieur la Chaise: direct him to ring the bell, and--after having told Bontems to summon Monsieur de Montchevreuil and the Archbishop, who is still here, I think--to come hither himself as speedily as possible. You will accompany him."
What were the King's intentions Clémence de Marly scarcely could divine; but seeing that her words had evidently given happiness both to the King and to Madame de Maintenon, and judging from that fact that her own best hopes for the deliverance of him she loved might be on the eve of accomplishment, she flew rather than ran to obey the King's directions. She found the King's confessor, La Chaise, waiting, evidently for the return of the King, with some impatience. The message which she brought him seemed to excite his astonishment greatly; but after pausing for a moment to consider what kind of event that message might indicate, the old man clasped his hands, exclaiming, "This is God's work, the King's salvation is now secure."
He then did as he had been directed, rang the bell for Bontems, gave the order as he had received it, and hurried after Clémence along the corridor of the palace. At the door of Madame de Maintenon's apartment the young lady paused, for there were voices speaking eagerly within, and she feared to intrude upon the monarch. His commands to return, however, had been distinct, and she consequently opened the door and entered. Madame de Maintenon was standing by the table with her eyes bent down, and her colour much heightened. The King was also standing, and with a slight frown upon his countenance was regarding a person who had been added to the party since Clémence had left it. This was no other than the minister Louvois, whose coarse harsh features seemed filled with sullen mortification, which even the presence of the King could scarcely restrain from breaking forth in angry words. His eyes were bent down, not in humility but in stubborness, his shoulders a little raised, and he was muttering rather than speaking when Clémence entered. The only words, however, that were audible were, "Your Majesty's will must be a law to yourself as well as to your people. I have ventured in all sincerity to express my opinion, and have nothing more to say."
The opening of the door caused Madame de Maintenon to raise her eyes, and when she saw Clémence and the confessor a glad and relieved smile played over her countenance, which was greatly increased by the words which the confessor addressed to the King immediately on his entrance.
"Sire," he said, without waiting for Louis to speak, "from what I have heard, and from what I see, I believe--nay, I am sure, that your Majesty is about to take a step which will, more than any that I know of, tend to insure your eternal salvation. Am I not right?" and he extended his hand towards Madame de Maintenon, as if that gesture were quite sufficient to indicate his full meaning.
"You are, my good father," replied the King; "and I am happy to find that so wise and so good a man as yourself approves of what I am doing. Monsieur Louvois here still seems discontented, though I have conceded so much to his views of policy as to promise that this marriage shall remain for ever private."
"What are views of policy," cried Père la Chaise, "to your Majesty's eternal salvation? There are greater, there are higher considerations than worldly policy, Sire; but even were worldly policy all, I should differ with Monsieur Louvois, and say that you were acting as wisely in the things of this world as in reference to another."
"God knows, and this lady knows," said Louvois, "that my only opposition proceeds from views of policy. For herself, personally," he added, feeling that he might have offended one who was more powerful than even himself, "for herself, personally, she well knows that I have the most deep and profound respect; and, since it is to be, I trust that his Majesty will allow me to be one of the witnesses."
"Assuredly," replied the King. "I had so determined in my own mind, Monsieur de Louvois; and as we need not have more than three, we will dispense with this young lady's presence. Oh, here comes the Archbishop and Montchevreuil; my good father La Chaise, let me beg you to prepare an altar, even here. I have determined that all doubt and discussion upon this subject shall be over to-night. Explain, I beg you, to Monsieur de Harlay what are my views and intentions. One word, belle Clémence," he added, advancing to Clémence, and speaking to her with a gracious smile, "we shall not need your presence, fair lady, but you shall not want the bridemaid's presents. Come hither to-morrow half an hour before I go to the council; and as you have judged well and wisely in this cause to-night, we will endeavour to judge leniently on any cause that you may bring before us to-morrow."
Although the King spoke low, his words did not escape the keen ear of Louvois; and when Clémence raised her eyes to reply, they met those of the minister gazing upon her with a look of fiend-like anger, which seemed to imply, "You have triumphed over me for the time, and have thwarted me in a matter of deep moment. You think at the same time you have gained your own private end, but I will disappoint you."
Such at least was the interpretation that Clémence put upon that angry glance. For an instant it made her heart sink, but, recollecting her former courage the next instant, she replied boldly to the King, "My trust is always in your Majesty alone. I have ever had that trust; and what I have seen to-night would show me clearly, that let us expect what we may of your Majesty's magnanimity and generosity no disappointment will await us."
Thus saying she retired; and what farther passed in the chamber that she quitted--though it affected the destinies of Louis, and of France, and of Europe, more than any event which had taken place for years--remains in the records of history amongst those things which are known though not proved, and are never doubted even though no evidence of their reality exists.
The hope delayed, which maketh the heart sick, had its wearing effect upon the Count de Morseiul. His countenance showed it in every line; the florid hue of strong health was beginning to pass away; and one morning, in taking his usual walk up and down the court of the Bastille in company with the bluff old English officer we have mentioned, his companion, after gazing in his face for a moment, as if something therein had suddenly struck him, said, "You look ill, young gentleman; what is the matter?"
"How is it possible that I can be otherwise," said the Count, "confined as I am here, and lingering on from day to day, without any knowledge of what is passing regarding myself, or of the fate of friends that I love, or of the condition of all those in whose happiness I am interested?"
"Poo! you must bear things more lightly," answered the old soldier. "Why here, you, a youth, a mere boy, have plenty of time before you to spare a year or two for imprisonment. Think of what a difference there is between you and me: here am I without a day too much to spare in life; while to you neither months nor years are any thing. As to your friends without, too, trouble not your brain about them. The world would go on just as well without you and I, if we were put out of it to-morrow; friends would find new friends, sweethearts gain new lovers, servants betake them to new masters, and the roses would grow, and the birds would sing, and love, and war, and policy, and the wind of heaven, would have their course as if nothing had happened. There might be a few drops in some eyes which would fall like a spring shower, and be dried up again as soon. However," he added, seeing that his philosophy was not very much to the taste of the young Count, "you must live in the world as long as I have done ere you can take such hard lessons home; and if it be but communication with your friends without that you want, I should think that might be obtained easily."
"I see not how that is to be done," replied the Count. "If they had allowed me to have my valet here there would have been no difficulty, for I do not think that even stone walls would keep in his wit."
"Oh, we can do without him, I dare say," replied the old man. "If you write me down a note, containing few words, and no treason, doubtless I can find means, perhaps this very day, of sending it forth to any one that you will. In my apartment we shall find paper, which I got not long ago; some sort of ink we will easily manufacture for ourselves. So, come: that will revive hope a little for you; and though I cannot promise you an answer, yet perhaps one may be obtained too. There are old friends of mine that sometimes will drop in to see me; and what I propose to do, is to give your note to one of the prisoners I have spoken with, who expects to be liberated to-day or to-morrow, and direct the answer to be sent by some one who is likely to come to see me."
The young Count gladly availed himself of this proposal; and the means of writing having, by one prison resource or another, been obtained, he wrote a few brief words, detailing the anxiety and pain he suffered, and begging some immediate information as to the probability of his obtaining his freedom, and regarding the situation of those that he loved best. He couched his meaning in language as vague as possible, and addressed the note to his valet, Jerome Riquet, fearing to write to Clémence, lest he should by any means draw suspicion and consequent evil upon her. The old English officer undertook to give all the necessary directions for its delivery, and when they met again in the evening, he assured him that the note was gone.
At an early hour on the following morning the Englishman was called away from him to speak with some one admitted by an order from the minister; and in about ten minutes after he joined the Count, and slipped a small piece of folded paper into his hand, saying, in a low voice, "Do not look at it now, or leave me immediately, for there are several of these turnkeys about, and we must not create suspicion." After a few more turns, however, the old man said, "Now, Monsieur de Morseiul," and the Count hastening to his chamber, opened the note which was in the handwriting of Riquet.
"I have been obliged," it said, "to keep out of the way, and to change my shape a dozen times, on account of the business of the Exempt; but--from what the Count says, and from hearing that Monsieur de Louvois swore last night by all the gods that he worships, that, on account of some offence just given, he will bring the Count's head to the block within a week, as he did that of Monsieur de Rohan--a bold stroke will be struck to-day. The Count will be set at liberty about two o'clock, and the moment he is at liberty he must neither go to King nor ministers, nor to his own house, either in Paris or at Versailles, but to the little inn called the Golden Cock, in the Rue du Faubourg St. Antoine, call himself Monsieur du Sac, and ask for the horse his servant brought. Having got it, let him ride on for Poitou as fast as he can go. He will meet friends by the way."
This was all that the note contained, and what was the bold stroke that Riquet alluded to the Count could not divine. He judged, indeed, that perhaps it was quite as well he should be ignorant of the facts; and after having impressed all the directions contained in the note upon his mind, he destroyed the paper, and was preparing to go down again into the court.
It so happened, however, that he paused for a moment, and took up one of the books which he was still reading, when an officer, who was called the Major of the Bastille, entered the room, and summoned him to the presence of the governor. The Count immediately followed, and passing through the gate into the Court of Government, he found Besmaux waiting in the corps de garde, with a blithe and smiling countenance.
"Good morning, Monsieur de Morseiul," he said; "I have got some good news for you, which perhaps you do not expect."
He fixed his eyes scrutinisingly upon the Count's face, but all was calm. "Here is an order for your liberation," he continued, "which, doubtless, you will be glad to hear."
"Most glad," exclaimed the Count; "for, to say the truth, I am growing both sick and weary of this imprisonment, especially as I know that I have done nothing to deserve it."
"That is better than being imprisoned knowing you have done something to deserve it," said Besmaux. "However, here is the order; and though it is not exactly in accurate form, I must obey, I suppose, and set you at liberty, for here is the King's handwriting in every line."
"That you must judge of yourself, Monsieur de Besmaux," replied the Count. "But I hope, of course, that you will not detain me any longer than is necessary."
"No, no," said Besmaux; "I must obey the order, for it is in the King's hand distinctly. Here are all the things that were upon your person, Monsieur de Morseiul. Be so good as to break the seal yourself, examine them, and give me an acknowledgment--as is usual here--that they have been returned to you. There is the ordinary form; you have nothing to do but to sign it."
The Count did as he was required to do, and the governor then restored to him his sword, saying, "There is your sword, Monsieur le Comte. It is customary to give some little acknowledgment to the turnkeys if you think fit; and now, Monsieur le Comte, you are free. Will you do me the honour of supping with me again to-night?"
"I fear not to-night, Monsieur de Besmaux; some other time I will have that pleasure. But, of course, after this unexpected and sudden enlargement, there is much to be done."
"Of course," replied the governor; "you will have to thank the King, and Monsieur de Louvois, and all that. Some other time then be it. It is strange they have sent no carriage or horse for you. Perhaps you would like to wait till they arrive?"
"Oh, no," replied the Count. "Freedom before every thing, Monsieur de Besmaux. By your permission I will send for the apparel I have left in my chamber. But now, to set my foot beyond the drawbridge is my great ambition."
"We will conduct you so far," replied Besmaux, and led the way towards the gate. The drawbridge was lowered, the gates opened, and the Count, distributing the greater part of the money which had been restored to him amongst the turnkeys, turned and took leave of the governor, and issued forth from the Bastille. He remarked, however, that Besmaux, with the major of the prison, and two or three others, remained upon the bridge, as if they felt some suspicion, and were watching his farther proceedings. He, accordingly, rendered his pace somewhat slow, and turned towards his own hotel in Paris, while two or three boys, who hung about the gates of the Bastille, followed, importunately looking up in his face. He passed along two streets before he could get rid of them, but then, suddenly turning up one of the narrow lanes of the city, he made the best of his way to the little inn, or rather public house, which Jerome Riquet had pointed out to him in his letter, where a bright golden cock, somewhat larger than life, stood out into the street from a pole thrust into the front of the house. Before he turned in he looked down the street towards the Bastille, but saw no cause for suspicion, and entered the narrow entrance. As was not uncommon in such houses at that time, no door on either hand gave admission to the rooms of the inn till the visiter had threaded half way through the small ill-lighted passage. At length, however, doors appeared, and the sound of a footstep instantly called out a stout, jovial-looking personage, with a considerable nose and abundance of cheek and stomach, who, without saying any thing, merely planted himself directly in the Count's way.
"Are you the landlord?" demanded the Count.
"Yes, Sir," replied the cabaretier, much more laconically than might have been expected from his appearance. "Who are you?"
"I am Monsieur du Sac," replied the Count.
"Oh, oh!" cried the host, laying his forefinger on the side of his face. "If you are Monsieur du Sac, your horse will be ready in a crack. But you had better come into the stable; there are people drinking in the hall."
The Count followed him without saying any more, and found three horses standing ready saddled, and wanting only the girths tightened, and the bridles in their mouths. The centre one he instantly recognised as one of his own finest horses, famous for its great strength and courage. The other two were powerful animals, but of a different breed; and the Count was somewhat surprised when the landlord ordered a stable boy, who was found waiting, to make haste and girth them all up. The boy began with the farther horse; but the landlord then exclaimed, "No, no, the gentleman's first, the others will do after;" and in a moment the Count's horse was ready to set out.
"Better go by the back gate, Sir," said the host; "then if you follow round by the gardens of the convent of St. Mary, up the little lane to the left, you will come into the road again, where all is clear. Where's the bottle, boy, I told you to have ready? Monsieur du Sac will want a draught before he goes." A large bottle was instantly produced from a nook in the stable, and a tumbler full of excellent wine poured out. The Count took it, and drank, for excitement had made him thirsty, and he might well want that support, which the juice of the grape or any other thing could afford, when he reflected that the die was now cast; that he had been liberated from prison, as he could not doubt by some counterfeit order; and that he was flying from the court of France, certainly never to return, unless it were as a captive brought back probably to death.
The blow being struck, however, he was not a man to feel regret or hesitation, and there was something in the sensation of being at liberty, of having cast off the dark load of imprisonment, which was in itself inspiring. He sprang upon his horse then with joyful speed, cast the landlord one of the few gold pieces that remained in his purse, and while the boy held open the back gates of the inn court, he rode out once more free to turn his steps whithersoever he would. That part of the city was not unknown to him, and passing round the gardens, and through the narrow lanes which at that time were intermingled with the Faubourg St. Antoine, he entered the high road again just where the town ended, and the country began; and putting his horse into a quick pace, made the best of his way onward toward Poitou.
As he now went forth he looked not back, and he had gone on for five or six miles, when the belief that he heard the feet of horses following fast made him pause and turn. He was not mistaken in the supposition. There were two horsemen on the road, about five or six hundred yards behind him; but they slackened their pace as soon as he paused; and remembering the words written by Jerome Riquet, that he would find friends upon the road, he thought it better not to inquire into the matter any further, but make the most of his time, and go on. He thus proceeded without drawing a rein for about five and thirty miles, the men who were behind him still keeping him in sight, but never approaching nearer than a certain distance.
The road which he had chosen was that of Orleans, though not the most direct; but by taking it, he avoided all that part of the country through which he was most likely to be pursued if his flight were speedily discovered. At length, in the neighbourhood of the little town of Angerville, a man appeared on horseback at the turning of one of the roads. He was evidently waiting for some one, and rode up to the Count as soon as ever he appeared, saying merely, "Monsieur du Sac."
"The same," replied the Count; and the man immediately said, "This way, then, Sir."
The Count followed without any reply, and the man rode on at a quick pace for the distance of fully three miles further. The horsemen turned as the Count had turned, but the road had become tortuous, and they were soon lost to his sight. At length, however, the high stone walls, overtopped with trees, and partly covered with ivy, which usually surrounded the park of an old French château, appeared, and making a circuit round three sides of this enclosure, the Count and his guide came suddenly to the large iron gates, which gave admission to a paved court leading to another set of gates, with a green esplanade and a terrace above; while the whole was crowned by a heavy mass of stonework, referable to no sort of architecture but itself. Round these courts were various small buildings, scarcely fitted indeed for human habitation, but appropriated to gardeners and gatekeepers, and other personages of the kind; and from one of these, as soon as the Count appeared, instantly rushed forth Jerome Riquet himself, kissing his master's hand with sincere joy and affection, which was not at all decreased by a consciousness that his liberation had been effected by the skill, genius, and intrigue of the said Jerome Riquet himself.
"Dismount, my Lord, in all safety," he said; "we have taken measures to insure that you should not be traced. Refreshments of every kind are ready for you; and if you so please, you can take a comfortable night's repose before you go on."
"That were scarcely prudent, Riquet," replied the Count; "but I will at all events pause for a time, and you can tell me all that has happened. First, whose dwelling is this?"
"The house of good Monsieur Perault at Angerville," replied the valet. "He has been dead for about two months, and his old maître d'hôtel, being a friend of mine, and still in the family, gave me the keys of the château to be your first resting place."
On entering the château, Albert of Morseiul found it completely thronged with his own servants; and the joyful faces that crowded round, some in smiles and some in tears, to see their young lord liberated, was not a little sweet to his heart. Some balm, indeed, was necessary to heal old wounds, before new ones were inflicted; and, though Riquet moved through the assembled attendants with the conscious dignity of one who had conferred the benefit in which they rejoiced, yet he hastened to lead his young lord on, and to have the room cleared, having much indeed to tell. His tale was painful to the Count in many respects; but, being given by snatches, as the various questions of his master elicited one fact after another, we will attempt to put it in more continuous form, and somewhat shorter language, taking it up at events which, though long past, were now first explained.
From an accidental reference to the Count's journey from Morseiul to Poitiers, Riquet was led to declare the whole facts in regard to the commission which had been given by the King to Pelisson and St. Helie. The insatiable spirit of curiosity by which Maître Jerome was possessed, never let him rest till he had made the unhappy Curé of Guadrieul declare, by a manœuvre before related, what was in the sheepskin bag he carried; and, as soon as the valet heard that it was a commission from the King, his curiosity was still more strongly excited to ascertain the precise contents. For the purpose of so doing, he attached himself firmly to the Curé during the rest of the evening, made him smoke manifold pipes, induced him to eat every promotive of drinking that he could lay his hands upon, plied him with wine, and then when half besotted, ventured to insinuate a wish to peep into the bag. The Curé, however, was firm to his trust even in the midst of drunkenness; he would peep into the bag with curious longings himself, but he would allow no one else to do so, and Riquet had no resource but to finish what he had so well commenced by a bottle of heady Burgundy in addition, which left the poor priest but strength enough to roll away to his chamber, and, conscious that he was burthened with matters which he was incompetent to defend, to lock the door tight behind him before he sunk insensible on his bed. He forgot, however, one thing, which it is as well for every one to remember; namely, that chambers have windows as well as doors; and Jerome Riquet, whose genius for running along house gutters was not less than his other high qualities, found not the slightest difficulty of effecting an entrance, and spending three or four hours in the examination of the sheepskin bag and its contents. With as much skill as if he had been brought up in the French post-office of that day, he opened the royal packet without even breaking the seals, and only inflicting a very slight and accidental tear on one part of the envelope, which the keen eyes of Pelisson had afterwards discovered.
As soon as he saw the nature of the King's commission, Riquet,--who was no friend to persecution of any kind, and who well knew that all his master's plans would be frustrated, and the whole province of Poitou thrown into confusion if such a commission were opened on the first assembling of the states,--determined to do away with it altogether, and substitute an old pack of cards which he happened to have in his valise in place of that important document. He then proceeded to examine minutely and accurately the contents of the Curé's trunk mail, and more from a species of jocose malice than any thing else, he tore off a piece of the King's commission which could do no harm to any one, and folded it round the old tobacco box, which he had found wrapped up in a piece of paper very similar amongst the goods and chattels of the priest.
Besides this adventure, he had various others to detail to the Count, with the most important of which: namely, his interview with the King and Louvois at Versailles, the reader is already acquainted. But he went on from that point to relate, that, lingering about in the neighbourhood of the King's apartments, he had heard the order for his master's arrest given to Monsieur de Cantal. He flew home with all speed, but on arriving at the Count's hotel found that he had already gone to the palace, and that his arrest was certain.
His next question to himself was how he might best serve him under such circumstances; and, habituated from the very infancy of his valethood to travesty himself in all sorts of disguises, he determined instantly on assuming the character of an Exempt of one of the courts of law, as affording the greatest probability of answering his purpose. He felt a degree of enjoyment and excitement in every species of trick of the kind which carried him through, when the least timidity or hesitation would have frustrated his whole plans. The fact is, that although it may seem a contradiction in terms, yet Maître Jerome was never so much in his own character as when he was personating somebody else.
The result of his acting on this occasion we already know, as far as the Count was concerned; but the moment that he had seen him lodged in the Bastille, the valet, calculating that his frolic might render Versailles a dangerous neighbourhood, retired to the Count's hotel in Paris, where a part of his apparel was still to be found, compounded rapidly the sympathetic ink from one of the many receipts stored up in his brain, and then flew with a handkerchief, properly prepared, to Clémence de Marly, whom he found alone with the Chevalier d'Evran. As his master had not made him acquainted with the occasional feelings of jealousy which he had experienced towards that gentleman, Jerome believed he had fallen upon the two persons from whom, out of all the world, his master would be most delighted to hear. The whole facts of the Count's arrest then were detailed and discussed, and the words written, which, as we have seen, were received by Albert of Morseuil in prison.
Afraid to go back to Versailles, Riquet hastened away into Poitou leaving to Clémence de Marly and the Chevalier d'Evran the task of liberating his lord, of which they seemed to entertain considerable hopes. On his return, however, he found, first, that all his fellow-servants having been faithful to him, the investigations regarding the appearance of the Exempt had ended in nothing being discovered, except that somebody had profanely personated one of those awful personages; and, secondly, that the Count was not only still in durance, but that little, if any, progress had been made towards effecting his liberation. The Duc de Rouvré, who seemed to be restored to the King's favour, was now a guest at the palace of Versailles: with Clémence de Marly the valet could not obtain an interview, though he daily saw her in company with the Chevalier d'Evran, and the report began to be revived that the King intended to bestow her hand upon that gentleman, who was now in exceedingly high favour with the monarch.
A scheme now took possession of the mind of Riquet, which only suggested itself in utter despair of any other plan succeeding; and as, to use his own expression, the very attempt, if frustrated, would bring his head under the axe, he acknowledged to his lord that he had hesitated and trembled even while he prepared every thing for its execution. He went down once more into Poitou; he communicated with all the friends and most favoured vassals of his master; he obtained money and means for carrying every part of his scheme into effect, as soon as his lord should be liberated from the Bastille, and for securing his escape into Poitou, where a choice of plans remained before him, of which we shall have to speak hereafter.
The great point, however, was to enable the Count to make his exit from the prison, and it was at this that the heart of Jerome Riquet failed. His was one of those far-seeing geniuses that never forget, in any situation, to obtain, from the circumstances of the present, any thing which may be, however remotely, advantageous in the future. Upon this principle he had acted in his conference with the King, and without any definite and immediate object but that of obtaining pardon for himself for past offences, he had induced the monarch, we must remember, to give him a document, of which he now proposed to take advantage. By a chemical process, very easily effected, he completely took out the ink in those parts of the document where his own name was written, and then, with slow and minute labour, substituted the name of his master in the place, imitating, even to the slightest stroke, the writing of the King. The date underwent the same change to suit his purpose, so that a complete pardon, in what appeared the undoubted hand of the King himself, was prepared for the Count de Morseiul.
This step having been taken, Riquet contemplated his work with pride, but fear, and the matter remained there for the whole day: but by the next morning he had become habituated to daring; and, resolved to make the document complete, he spent eight hours in forging, underneath, an order, in due form, for the Count's liberation; and the most practised eye could have scarcely found any difference between the lines there written and those of the King himself. In all probability, if Riquet could have obtained a scrap of Louvois' writing he would have added the countersign of the minister, but, as that was not to be had, he again laid the paper by, and was seized with some degree of panic at what he had done.
He had brought up, however, from Poitou, his lord's intendant, and several others of his confidential servants and attendants, promising them, with the utmost conceit and self-confidence, to set the Count at liberty. They now pressed him to fulfil his design, and while he hesitated, with some degree of tremour, the note which the old English officer had conveyed to him was put into his hands, and decided him at once. He entrusted the forged order to a person whom he could fully rely upon to deliver it at the gates of the Bastille, stationed his relays upon the road, and prepared every thing for his master's escape.
Such was the account which he gave to his young lord, as he sat in the château of Angerville, and though he did not exactly express all that he had heard in regard to Clémence de Marly and the Chevalier d'Evran, he told quite enough to renew feelings in the bosom of the Count which he had struggled against long and eagerly.
"Who were the men," demanded the Count, "that followed me on horseback?"
"Both of them, Sir," replied the man, "were persons who would have delayed any pursuit of you at the peril of their own lives. One of them was your own man, Martin, whom you saved from being hung for a spy, by the night attack you made upon the Prince of Orange's quarters. The other, Sir, was poor Paul Virlay, who came up with the intendant of his own accord, with his heart well nigh broken, and with all the courage of despair about him."
"Poor Paul Virlay!" exclaimed the Count--"his heart well nigh broken! Why, what has happened to him, Jerome? I left him in health and in happiness."
"Ay, Sir," replied the man, "but things have changed since then. Two hellish priests--I've a great mind to become a Huguenot myself--got hold of his little girl, and got her to say, or at least swore that she said, she would renounce her father's religion. He was furious; and her mother, who had been ill for some days, grew worse, and took to her bed. The girl said she never had said so; the priests said she had, and brought a witness; and they seized her in her father's own house, and carried her away to a convent. He was out when it happened, and when he came back he found his wife dying and his child gone. The mother died two days after; and Paul, poor fellow, whose brain was quite turned, was away for three days with his large sledgehammer with him, which nobody but himself could wield. Every body said that he was gone to seek after the priests, to dash their brains out with the hammer, but they heard of it, and escaped out of the province; and at the end of three days he came back quite calm and cool, but every body saw that his heart was broken. I saw him at Morseiul, poor fellow, and I have seldom seen so terrible a sight. The mayor, who has turned Catholic, you know, Sir, asked him if he had gone after the priests, to which he said 'No;' but every one thinks that he did."
While Riquet was telling this tale the Count had placed his hands before his eyes, and it was evident that he trembled violently, moved by terrible and strongly conflicting feelings, the fiery struggle of which might well have such an influence on his corporeal frame. He rose from his seat slowly, however, when the man had done, and walked up and down the room more than once with a stern heavy step. At length, turning to Riquet again, he demanded,
"And in what state is the province?"
"Why, almost in a state of revolt, Sir," replied Riquet. "As far as I can hear, there are as many as a couple of thousand men in arms in different places. It is true they are doing no great things; that the intendant of the province, sometimes with the Bishop, sometimes with the Abbé St. Helie, marches hither and thither with a large body of troops, and puts down the revolt here, or puts down the revolt there. Till he hears that it has broken out in another place, he remains where it last appeared, quartering his soldiers upon the inhabitants, and, in the order of the day, allowing themto do every thing but kill. Then he drives the people by thousands at a time to the churches of our religion, makes them take the mass, and breaks a few of them on the wheel when they spit the host out of their mouths. He then writes up to the King that he has made wonderful conversions; but before his letter can well reach Paris he is obliged to march to another part of the province, to put down the insurrection there, and to make converts, and break on the wheel as before."
"Say no more, say no more," cried the Count. "Oh, God! wilt thou suffer this to go on?"
Again he paced the room for several minutes, and then turning suddenly to Riquet, he said--"Riquet, you have shown yourself at once devoted, courageous, and resolute in the highest degree."
"Oh, Sir," interrupted the man, "you mistake: I am the most desperate coward that ever breathed."
"No jesting now, Riquet," said the Count, in a sorrowful tone; "no jesting now. My spirits are too much crushed, my heart too much torn to suffer me to hear one light word. After all that you have done for me, will you do one act more? Have you the courage to return to Paris this night, and carry a letter for me to Mademoiselle de Marly, and to bring me back her reply?"
"Well, Sir, well," said Riquet, rubbing his hands, and then putting his fore-finger under his collar, and running it round his neck with a significant gesture, "a man can be hanged but once in his life, at least as far as I know of; and, as Cæsar said, 'A brave man is but hanged once, a coward is hanged every day;' therefore, as I see no other object that my father and mother could have in bringing me into the world, but that I should be hanged in your service, I will go to Paris, at the risk of accomplishing my destiny, with all my heart."
"Hark you, Riquet," replied the Count, "I will give you a means of security. If by any means you should be taken, and likely to be put to death for what you have done, tell those who take you, that, upon a distinct promise of pardon to you under the King's own hand, the Count of Morseiul will surrender himself in your place. I will give you that promise under my hand, if you like."
"That is not necessary, Sir," replied Riquet. "Every body in all France knows that you keep your word. But pray write the letter quickly; for, ride as hard as I will, I shall have scarce time to reach Paris before bed-time; and I suppose you would not have the young lady wakened."
There was a degree of cold bitterness in Riquet's manner when he spoke thus of Clémence, which made the Count of Morseiul feel that the man thought he was deceived. But still, after what had passed before, he felt that he was bound to be more upon his guard against himself than against others; and he resolved that he would not be suspicious, that he would drive from his bosom every such feeling, that he would remember the indubitable proofs of affection that she had given him, and that he would act toward her as if her whole conduct had been under his eye, and had been such as he could most approve. The materials for writing were instantly procured, and while Riquet caused a fresh horse to be saddled, and prepared for his journey, the Count sat down and wrote as follows:--