Our readers must now permit us to look backward, for we have (in following the principal persons of our history) neglected some others in Bretagne, who deserve some notice; besides, if we do not represent them as taking an active part in this tale, history is ready with her inflexible voice to contradict us; we must, therefore, for the present, submit to the exigencies of history.
Bretagne had, from the first, taken an active part in the movement of the legitimated bastards; this province, which had given pledges of fidelity to monarchical principles, and pushed them to exaggeration, if not to madness, since it preferred the adulterous offspring of a king to the interests of a kingdom, and since its love became a crime by calling in aid of the pretensions of those whom it recognized as its princes, enemies against whom Louis XIV. for sixty years, and France for two centuries had waged a war of extermination.
We have seen the list of the principal names which constituted this revolt; the regent had wittily said that it containedthe head and tail; but he was mistaken—it was the head and body. The head was the council of the legitimated princes, the king of Spain, and his imbecile agent, the prince of Cellamare; the body was formed by those brave and clever men who were now in the Bastille; but the tail was now agitating in Bretagne among a people unaccustomed to the ways of a court, and it was a tail armed with stings like those of a scorpion, and which was the most to be feared.
The Bretagne chiefs, then, renewed the Chevalier de Rohan, under Louis XIV.; we say the Chevalier de Rohan, because to every conspiracy must be given the name of a chief.
Along with the prince, who was a conceited and commonplace man, and even before him, were two men, stronger than he; one in thought and the other in execution. These two men were Letreaumont, a Norman gentleman, and Affinius Vanden-Enden, a Dutch philosopher; Letreaumont wanted money, he was the arm; Affinius wanted a republic, he was the soul. This republic, moreover, he wanted inclosed in Louis XIV.'s kingdom, still further to annoy the great king—who hated republicans even at a distance—who had persecuted and destroyed the Pensioner of Holland, John de Witt, more cruel in this than the Prince of Orange, who, in declaring himself De Witt's enemy, revenged personal injuries, while Louis XIV. had received nothing but friendship and devotion from this great man.
Now Affinius wanted a republic in Normandy, and got the Chevalier de Rohan named Protector; the Bretons wished to revenge themselves for certain injuries their province had received under the regency, and they decreed it a republic, with the power of choosing a protector, even were he a Spaniard; but Monsieur de Maine had a good chance.
This is what passed in Bretagne.
The Bretons lent an ear to the first overtures of the Spaniards; they had no more cause for discontent than other provinces, but to them it seemed a capital opportunity for war, and they had no other aim. Richelieu had ruled them severely; they thought to emancipate themselves under Dubois, and they began by objecting to the administrators sent by the regent; a revolution always commences by a riot.
Montesquieu was appointed viceroy to hold assemblies, to hear the people's complaints, and to collect their money. The people complained plentifully, but would not pay, because they did not like the steward; this appeared a bad reason to Montesquieu, who was a man of the old régime.
"You cannot offer these complaints to his majesty," said he, "without appearing to rebel: pay first, and complain afterward; the king will listen to your sorrows, but not to your antipathies to a man honored by his choice."
Monsieur de Montaran, of whom the Bretons complained, gave no offense; but, in being intendant of the province, any other would have been as much disliked, and they persisted in their refusal to pay.
"Monsieur le Marechal," said their deputies, "your language might suit a general treating with a conquered place, but cannot be accepted by free and privileged men. We are neither enemies nor soldiers—we are citizens and masters at home. In compensation of a service which we ask, namely—that Monsieur de Montaran, whom we dislike, should be removed, we will pay the tax demanded; but if the court takes to itself the highest prize, we will keep our money, and bear as we best can the treasurer who displeases us."
Monsieur de Montesquieu, with a contemptuous smile, turned on his heel—the deputies did the same, and both retired with their original dignity.
But the marshal was willing to wait; he behaved himself as an able diplomatist, and thought that private reunions would set all right; but the Breton nobles were proud—indignant at their treatment, they appeared no more at the marshal's reception; and he, from contempt, changed to angry and foolish resolves. This was what the Spaniards had expected. Montesquieu, corresponding with the authorities at Nantes, Quimper, Vannes, andRennes, wrote that he had to deal with rebels and mutineers, but that ten thousand of his soldiers should teach the Bretons politeness.
The states were held again; from the nobility to the people in Bretagne is but a step; a spark lights the whole; the citizens declared to M. de Montesquieu that if he had ten thousand men, Bretagne had a hundred thousand, who would teach his soldiers, with stones, forks and muskets, that they had better mind their own business, and that only.
The marshal assured himself of the truth of this assertion, and was quiet, leaving things as they were for a while; the nobility then made a formal and moderate complaint; but Dubois and the council of the regency treated it as a hostile manifesto, and used it as an instrument.
Montaran, Montesquieu, Pontcalec and Talhouet were the men really fighting among themselves. Pontcalec, a man of mind and power, joined the malcontents and encouraged the growth of the struggle.
There was no drawing back; the court, however, only saw the revolt, and did not suspect the Spanish affair. The Bretons, who were secretly undermining the regency, cried aloud, "No impost, no Montaran," to draw away suspicion from their anti-patriotic plots—but the event turned out against them. The regent—a skillful politician—guessed the plot without perceiving it; he thought that this local veil hid some other phantom, and he tore off the veil. He withdrew Montaran, and then the conspirators were unmasked; all the others were content and quiet, they alone remained in arms.
Then Pontcalec and his friends formed the plot we are acquainted with, and used violent means to attain their ends.
Spain was watching; Alberoni, beaten by Dubois in the affair of Cellamare, waited his revenge, and all the treasures prepared for the plot of Paris were now sent to Bretagne; but it was late—he did not believe it, and his agents deceived him; he thought it was possible to recommence the war, but then France made war on Spain. He thought it possible to kill the regent; but he, and not Chanlay, should do what no one would then recommend to the most cruel enemy of France. Alberoni reckoned on the arrival of a Spanish vessel full of arms and money, and this ship did not arrive; he waited for news of Chanlay; it was La Jonquiere who wrote—and what a La Jonquiere!
One evening Pontcalec and his friends had met in a little room near the old castle; their countenances were sad and irresolute—Du Couëdic announced that he had received a note recommending them to take flight.
"I have a similar one to show you," said Montlouis; "it was slid under my glass at table, and my wife, who expected nothing, was frightened."
"I neither expect nor fear anything," said Talhouet; "the province is calm, the news from Paris is good; every day the regent liberates some one of those imprisoned for the Spanish affair."
"And I, gentlemen," said Pontcalec, "must tell you of a strange communication I have received to-day. Show me your note, Du Couëdic, and you yours, Montlouis; perhaps it is the same writing, and is a snare for us."
"I do not think so, for if they wish us to leave this, it is to escape some danger; we have nothing to fear for our reputation, for that is not at stake. The affairs of Bretagne are known to the world: your brother, Talhouet, and your cousin have fled to Spain: Solduc, Rohan, Sanbilly the counselor, have all disappeared, yet their flight was supposed to be natural, and from some simple cause of discontent. I confess, if the advice be repeated, I shall fly."
"We have nothing to fear, my friends," said Pontcalec, "our affairs were never more prosperous. See, the court has no suspicion, or we should have been molested already. La Jonquiere wrote yesterday; he announces that De Chanlay is starting for La Muette, where the regent lives as a private gentleman, without guards, without fear."——"Yet you are uneasy," said Du Couëdic.
"I confess it, but not for the reason you suppose."
"What is it, then?"
"A personal matter."
"Of your own!"
"Yes, and I could not confide it to more devoted friends, or any who know me better. If ever I were molested—if ever I had the alternative of remaining or of flying to escape a danger, I should remain; do you know why?"
"No, speak."
"I am afraid."
"You, Pontcalec?—afraid! What do you mean by these words, after those you have just uttered?"
"Mon Dieu! yes, my friend; the ocean is our safeguard; we could find safety on board one of those vessels which cruise on the Loire from Paimbœuf to Saint Nazaire; but what is safety to you is certain death to me."
"I do not understand you," said Talhouet.
"You alarm me," said Montlouis.
"Listen, then, my friends," said Pontcalec.
And he began, in the midst of the most scrupulous attention, the following recital, for they knew that if Pontcalec were afraid there must be a good cause.
"I was ten years old, and I lived at Pontcalec, in the midst of woods, when one day my uncle Crysogon, my father, and I, resolved to have a rabbit hunt in a warren at five or six miles distance, found, seated on the heath, a woman reading. So few of our peasants could read that we were surprised. We stopped and looked at her—I see her now, as though it were yesterday, though it is nearly twenty years ago. She wore the dark costume of our Breton women, with the usual white head-dress, and she was seated on a large tuft of broom in blossom, which she had been cutting.
"My father was mounted on a beautiful bay horse, with a gold-colored mane, my uncle on a gray horse, young and ardent, and I rode one of those little white ponies, which to strength and activity unite the docility of a sheep.
"The woman looked up from her book at the group before her, and seeing me firm in my stirrups near my father, who seemed proud of me, she rose all at once, and approaching me, said—
"'What a pity!'
"'What do you mean?' asked my father.
"'It means that I do not like that white pony,' replied the woman.
"'And why not?'
"'Because he will bring misfortune to your child, Sirè de Pontcalec.'
"We Bretons are superstitious, you know; so that even my father, who, you know, Montlouis, was an enlightened as well as a brave man, stopped, in spite of my uncle Crysogon, who urged us to proceed, and trembling at the idea of danger to me, he added—
"'Yet the pony is gentle, my good woman, and Clement rides well for his age. I have often ridden the little animal in the park, and its paces are perfect.'
"'I do not know anything of that, Marquis de Guer,' replied the woman, 'but the little white horse will injure your son Clement, I tell you.'
"'And how can you know this?'
"'I see it,' replied she, in a strange voice.
"'When?' asked my father.
"'To-day.'
"My father turned pale, and I was afraid; but my uncle Crysogon, who had been in the Dutch wars, and had become somewhat hardened by combating the Huguenots, laughed till he nearly fell from his horse.
"'Parbleu!' said he, 'this good woman certainly is in league with the rabbits at Savernay. What do you say to it, Clement: would you like to go home and lose the sport?'
"'Uncle,' I replied, 'I would rather go on with you.'
"'You look pale and odd—are you afraid?'
"'I am not afraid,' said I.
"I lied, for I felt a certain shudder pass through me, which was very like fear.
"My father has since owned to me, that if it had not been for my uncle's words, which caused a certain false shame in him, he would have sent me home or given my horse to one of the servants; but what an example for a boy of my age, who declared himself to have no fear, and what a subject for ridicule to my uncle.
"I continued, then, to ride my pony; we reached the warren, and the chase commenced.
"While it lasted, the pleasures made us forget the prediction; but the chase over, and having started on our road home—
"'Well, Clement,' said my uncle, 'still on your pony; you are a brave boy.'
"My father and I both laughed; we were then crossing a plain as flat and even as this room—no obstacles in the way, nothing that could frighten a horse, yet at that moment my pony gave a bound which shook me from my seat, then he reared violently, and threw me off; my uncle laughed, but my father became as pale as death. I did not move, and my father leaped from his horse and came to me, and found that my leg was broken.
"To describe my father's grief and the cries of the grooms would be impossible; but my uncle's despair was indescribable—kneeling by my side, removing my clothes with a trembling hand, covering me with tears and caresses, his every word was a fervent prayer. My father was obliged to console him, but to all his consolations and caresses he answered not.
"They sent for the first surgeon at Nantes, who pronounced me in great danger. My uncle begged my mother's pardon all day long; and we remarked that, during my illness, he had quite changed his mode of life; instead of drinking and hunting with the officers—instead of going on fishing expeditions, of which he was so fond—he never left my pillow.
"The fever lasted six weeks, and the illness nearly four months; but I was saved, and retained no trace of the accident. When I went out for the first time, my uncle gave me his arm; but when the walk was over, he took leave of us with tears in his eyes.
"'Where are you going, Crysogon?' asked my father in astonishment.
"'I made a vow,' replied the good man, 'that if our child recovered, I would turn Carthusian, and I go to fulfill it.'
"This was a new grief. My father and my mother shed tears; I hung on my uncle's neck, and begged him not to leave us; but the viscount was a man who never broke a promise or a resolution. Our tears and prayers were vain.
"'My brother,' said he, 'I did not know that God sometimes deigns to reveal Himself to man in acts of mystery. I doubted, and deserve to be punished; besides, I do not wish to lose my salvation in the pleasures of this life.'
"At these words the viscount embraced me again, mounted his horse, and disappeared. He went to the Carthusian monastery at Morlaix. Two years afterward, fasts, macerations, and grief had made of this bon vivant, this joyous companion, this devoted friend, a premature skeleton. At the end of three years he died, leaving me all his wealth."
"Diable! what a frightful tale," said Du Couëdic; "but the old woman forgot to tell you that breaking your leg would double your fortune."
"Listen," said Pontcalec, more gravely than ever.
"Ah! it is not finished," said Talhouet.
"We are only at the commencement."
"Continue, we are listening."
"You have all heard of the strange death of the Baron de Caradec, have you not?"
"Our old college friend at Nantes," said Montlouis, "who was found murdered ten years ago in the forest of Chateaubriant?"
"Yes. Now listen; but remember that this is a secret which till this moment has been only known to me, and which even now must go no further than ourselves."
The three Bretons, who were deeply interested, gave the required promises.
"Well," said Pontcalec, "this college friendship of which Montlouis speaks hadundergone some change between Caradec and myself, on account of a rivalry. We loved the same woman, and I was loved by her.
"One day I determined to hunt the stag in the forest of Chateaubriant; my dogs and huntsmen had been sent out the day before, and I was on my way to the rendezvous, when, on the road before me, I saw an enormous fagot walking along. This did not surprise me, for our peasants carry such enormous fagots, that they quite disappear under their load; but this fagot appeared from behind to move alone. Soon it stopped; an old woman, turning round, showed her face to me. As I approached, I could not take my eyes off her, for I recognized the sorceress of Savernay, who had predicted the misfortune caused by my white pony.
"My first impulse, I confess, was to take another road, and avoid the prophetess of evil; but she had already seen me, and she seemed to wait for me with a smile full of malice. I was ten years older than when her first threat had frightened me. I was ashamed to go back.
"'Good-day, Viscount de Pontcalec,' said she; 'how is the Marquis de Guer?'
"'Well, good woman; and I shall be quite easy about him, if you will assure me that nothing will happen to him during my absence.'
"'Ah! ah!' said she laughing; 'you have not forgotten the plains of Savernay. You have a good memory, viscount; but yet, if I gave you some advice, you would not follow it any more than the first time. Man is blind.'
"'And what is your advice?'
"'Not to go hunting to-day.'
"'Why not?'
"'And to return at once to Pontcalec.'
"'I cannot; I have a rendezvous with some friends at Chateaubriant.'
"'So much the worse, viscount, for blood will be spilled.'
"'Mine?'
"'Yours, and another's.'
"'Bah! are you mad?'
"'So said your uncle Crysogon. How is he?'
"'Do you not know that he died seven years ago at Morlaix?'
"'Poor fellow!' said the woman, 'like you, he would not believe: at length he beheld, but it was too late.'
"I shuddered involuntarily; but a false shame whispered that it would be cowardly to give way, and that doubtless the fulfillment of the pretended witch's former prediction had been but a chance.
"'Ah! I see that a former experience has not made you wiser, my fine fellow,' said she. 'Well, go to Chateaubriant then, since you must have it so, but at least send back that handsome hunting-knife.'
"'And with what will monsieur cut the stag's foot?' asked the servant who followed me.
"'With your knife,' said the old woman.
"'That stag is a royal animal,' replied the servant, 'and deserves a hunting-knife.'
"'Besides,' said I, 'you said my blood would flow. What means that?—I shall be attacked, and if so, I shall want it to defend myself.'
"'I do not know what it means,' replied the old woman; 'but I do know, that in your place, my brave gentleman, I would listen to a poor old woman, and that I would not go to Chateaubriant; or, if I did go, it would be without my hunting-knife.'
"'Do not listen to the old witch, monsieur,' said the servant, who was doubtless afraid to take the fatal weapon.
"If I had been alone, I should have returned; but before my servant I did not like to do so.
"'Thank you, my good, woman,' said I, 'but really I do not see what reason there is for not going to Chateaubriant. As to my knife, I shall keep it; if I be attacked, I must have a weapon to defend myself.'
"'Go, then, and defend yourself,' said the old woman, shaking her head; 'we cannot escape our destiny.'
"I heard no more. I urged my horse to a gallop; but, turning a corner, I saw that the old woman had resumed her route, and I lost sight of her.
"An hour after I was in the forest of Chateaubriant; and I met you, Montlouis and Talhouet, for you were both of the party."
"It is true," said Talhouet, "and I began to understand."
"And I," said Montlouis.
"But I know nothing of it," said Du Couëdic; "so pray continue, Pontcalec."
"Our dogs started the deer, and we set off in pursuit; but we were not the only hunters in the forest—at a distance we heard the sound of another pack, which gradually approached; soon the two crossed, and some of my dogs by mistake went after the wrong deer. I ran after them to stop them, which separated me from you. You followed the rest of our pack; but some one had forestalled me. I heard the howls of my dogs under the lash of a whip; I redoubled my pace, and found the Baron de Caradec striking them. I told you there were causes of dislike between us, which only needed an opportunity to burst out. I asked him why he struck my dogs. His reply was haughtier than my question. We were alone—we were both twenty years of age—we were rivals—each was armed. We drew our knives—threw ourselves one upon the other, and Caradec fell from his horse, pierced through the body. To tell you what I felt when I saw him, bleeding and writhing in agony, would be impossible; I spurred my horse, and darted through the forest like a madman.
"I heard the voices of the hunters, and I arrived, one of the first, but I remember—do you remember it, Montlouis?—that you asked me why I was so pale."
"I do," said Montlouis.
"Then I remembered the advice of the sorceress, and reproached myself bitterly for neglecting it. This solitary and fatal duel seemed to me like an assassination. Nantes and its environs became insupportable to me, for every day I heard of the murder of Caradec. It is true that no one suspected me, but the secret voice of my conscience spoke so loud that twenty times I was on the point of denouncing myself.
"Then I left Nantes and went to Paris, but not until I had searched for the sorceress; not knowing either her name or her residence, I could not find her."
"It is strange," said Talhouet; "and have you ever seen her since?"
"Wait," said Pontcalec, "and listen, for now comes the terrible part. This winter—or rather last autumn—I say winter, because there was snow falling, though it was only in November—I was returning from Guer, and had ordered a halt at Pontcalec-des-Aulnes, after a day during which I had been shooting snipes in the marshes with two of my tenants. We arrived, benumbed with cold, at the rendezvous, and found a good fire and supper awaiting us.
"As I entered, and received the salutations and compliments of my people, I perceived in the chimney-corner an old woman wrapped in a large gray-and-black cloak, who appeared to be asleep.
"'Who is that?' I asked of the farmer, and trembling involuntarily.
"'An old beggar, whom I do not know, and she looks like a witch,' said he; 'but she was perishing with cold, hunger and fatigue. She came begging; I told her to come in, and gave her a piece of bread, which she eat while she warmed herself, and now she has gone to sleep.'
"The figure moved slightly in its corner.
"'What has happened to you, Monsieur le Marquis,' asked the farmer's wife, 'that you are so wet, and that your clothes are splashed with mud up to the shoulder?'
"'You nearly had to dine without me, my good Martine,' I replied, 'although this repast and this fire were prepared for me.'——"'Truly!' cried the good woman, alarmed.
"'Ah! monsieur had a narrow escape!' said the farmer.
"'How so, my good lord?'
"'You know your marshes are full of bogs; I ventured without sounding the ground, and all at once I felt that I was sinking in; so that, had it not been for my gun, which I held across, enabling your husband to come and pull me out, I should have been smothered, which is not only a cruel but a stupid death.'
"'Oh, monsieur,' said the wife, 'pray do not expose yourself in this way!'
"'Let him alone,' said the sepulchral voice of the figure crouched in the chimney-corner; 'he will not die thus; I foretell that.'
"And, lowering the hood of her gray cloak, she showed me the face of that woman who had twice crossed my path with sad prediction.
"I remained motionless and petrified.
"'You recognize me?' she asked, without moving.
"I made a sign of assent, but had not really the courage to reply. All gathered in a circle round us.
"'No, no,' continued she; 'be easy, Marquis de Guer; you will not die thus.'
"'How do you know?' I stammered out, with a conviction, however, that she did know.
"'I cannot tell you, for I do not know myself; but you know well that I do not make mistakes.'
"'And how shall I die?' asked I, making an effort over myself to ask this question and to listen to her reply.
"'You will die by the sea. Beware of the water, Marquis de Guer!' she replied.
"'How?' asked I. 'What do you mean?'
"'I have spoken, and cannot explain further, marquis; but again I say,Beware of the water!'
"All the peasants looked frightened; some muttered prayers, others crossed themselves; the old woman returned to her corner, buried herself again in her cloak, and did not speak another syllable.
"The details of this affair may some day escape my memory, but the impression it made will never be effaced. I had not the shadow of a doubt; and this prediction took the aspect of a reality, as far as I was concerned. Yes," continued Pontcalec, "even though you should laugh, like my Uncle Crysogon, you would never change my opinion, or take away from me the conviction that the prediction will be realized; therefore, I tell you, were it true that we are pursued by Dubois's exempts—were there a boat ready to take us to Belle Isle to escape them, so convinced am I that the sea will be fatal to me, and that no other death has any power over me, that I would give myself up to my pursuers, and say, 'Do your worst; I shall not die by your hands.'"
The three Bretons had listened in silence to this strange declaration, which gathered solemnity from the circumstances in which they stood.
"Then," said Du Couëdic, after a pause, "we understand your courage, my friend; believing yourself destined to one sort of death, you are indifferent to all other danger; but take care, if the anecdote were known, it would rob you of all merit; not in our eyes, for we know what you really are; but others would say that you entered this conspiracy because you can neither be beheaded, shot, nor killed by the dagger, but that it would have been very different if conspirators were drowned."
"And perhaps they would speak the truth," said Pontcalec, smiling.
"But, my dear marquis," said Montlouis, "we, who have not the same grounds for security, should, I think, pay some attention to the advice of our unknown friend, and leave Nantes, or even France, as soon as possible."
"But this may be wrong," said Pontcalec; "and I do not believe our projects are known at Nantes or elsewhere."
"And probably nothing will be known till Gaston has done his work," said Talhouet, "and then we shall have nothing to fear but enthusiasm, and that does not kill. As to you, Pontcalec, never approach a seaport, never go to sea, and you will live to the age of Methuselah!"
The conversation might have continued in this jocular strain; but at this moment several gentlemen, with whom they had appointed a meeting, came in by different secret ways, and in different costumes.
It was not that they had much to fear from the provincial police—that of Nantes, though Nantes was a large town, was not sufficiently well organized toalarm conspirators, who had in the locality the influence of name and social position—but the police of Paris—the regent's police, or that of Dubois—sent down spies, who were easily detected by their ignorance of the place, and the difference of their dress and speech.
Though this Breton association was numerous, we shall only occupy ourselves with its four chiefs, who were beyond all the others in name, fortune, courage, and intelligence.
They discussed a new edict of Montesquieu's, and the necessity of arming themselves in case of violence on the marshal's part: thus it was nothing less than the beginning of a civil war, for which the pretexts were the impiety of the regent's court and Dubois's sacrileges; pretexts which would arouse the anathemas of an essentially religious province, against a reign so little worthy to succeed that of Louis XIV.
Pontcalec explained their plan, not suspecting that at that moment Dubois's police had sent a detachment to each of their dwellings, and that an exempt was even then on the spot with orders to arrest them. Thus all who had taken part in the meeting, saw, from afar, the bayonets of soldiers at their houses: and thus, being forewarned, they might probably escape by a speedy flight; they might easily find retreats among their numerous friends: many of them might gain the coast, and escape to Holland, Spain, or England.
Pontcalec, Du Couëdic, Montlouis, and Talhouet, as usual, went out together; but, on arriving at the end of the street where Montlouis's house was situated, they perceived lights crossing the windows of the apartments, and a sentinel barring the door with his musket.
"Oh," said Montlouis, stopping his companions, "what is going on at my house?"
"Indeed, there is something," said Talhouet; "and just now I fancied I saw a sentinel at the Hotel de Rouen."
"Why did you not say so?" asked Du Couëdic, "it was surely worth mentioning."
"Oh, I was afraid of appearing an alarmist, and I thought it might be only a patrol."
"But this man belongs to the regiment of Picardy," said Montlouis, stepping back.
"It is strange," said Pontcalec; "let me go up the lane which leads to my house—if that also be guarded, there will be no further doubt."
Keeping together, in case of an attack, they went on silently till they saw a detachment of twenty men grouped round Pontcalec's house.
"This passes a joke," said Du Couëdic, "and unless our houses have all caught fire at once, I do not understand these uniforms around them; as to me, I shall leave mine, most certainly."
"And I," said Talhouet, "shall be off to Saint-Nazaire, and from thence to Le Croisic; take my advice and come with me. I know a brig about to start for Newfoundland, and the captain is a servant of mine; if the air on shore becomes too bad, we will embark, set sail, and vogue la galères; come, Pontcalec, forget your old witch and come with us."
"No, no," said Pontcalec, "I will not rush on my fate; reflect, my friends; we are the chiefs, and we should set a strange example by flying before we even know if a real danger exists. There is no proof against us. La Jonquiere is incorruptible; Gaston is intrepid; our letters from him say that all will soon be over; perhaps, at this very moment, France may be delivered and the regent dead. What would be thought of us if, at such a time, we had taken flight? the example of our desertion would ruin everything here. Consider it well; I do not command you as a chief, but I counsel you as a friend; you are not obliged to obey, for I free you from your oath, but in your place I would not go. We have given an example of devotion; the worst that can happen to us is to give that of martyrdom; but this will not, I hope, be the case. If we are arrested, the Breton parliament will judge us. Of what is it composed?—of our friends and accomplices. We are safer in a prison of which they hold the key, than on a vesselat the mercy of the winds; besides, before the parliament has assembled, all Bretagne will be in arms; tried, we are absolved; absolved, we are triumphant!"
"He is right," said Talhouet; "my uncle, my brothers, all my family are compromised with me. I shall save myself with them, or die with him."
"My dear Talhouet," said Montlouis, "all this is very fine; but I have a worse opinion of this affair than you have. If we are in the hands of any one, it is Dubois, who is not a gentleman, and hates those who are. I do not like these people who belong to no class—who are neither nobles, soldiers, nor priests. I like better a true gentleman, a soldier, or a monk: at least they are all supported by the authority of their profession. However, I appeal, as we generally do, to the majority; but I confess, that if it be for flight, I shall fly most willingly."
"And I," said Du Couëdic; "Montesquieu may be better informed than we suppose; and if it be Dubois who holds us in his clutches, we shall have some difficulty in freeing ourselves."
"And I repeat, we must remain," said Pontcalec; "the duty of a general is to remain at the head of his soldiers; the duty of the chief of a conspiracy is to die at the head of the plot."
"My dear friend," said Montlouis, "your sorceress blinds you; to gain credence for her prediction, you are ready to drown yourself intentionally. I am less enthusiastic about this pythoness, I confess; and as I do not know what kind of death is in store for me, I am somewhat uneasy."
"You are mistaken, Montlouis," said Pontcalec, "it is duty above all which influences me, and besides, if I do not die for this, you will not, for I am your chief, and certainly before the judges I should reclaim the title which I have abjured to-day. If I do not die by Dubois, neither will you. We soldiers, and afraid to pay an official visit to parliament, for that is it, after all, and nothing else; benches covered with black robes—smiles of intelligence between the accused and the judge: it is a battle with the regent; let us accept it, and when parliament shall absolve us, we shall have done as well as if we had put to flight all the troops in Bretagne."
"Montlouis proposed to refer it to a majority," said Du Couëdic, "let us do so."
"I did not speak from fear," said Montlouis; "but I do not see the use of walking into the lion's mouth if we can muzzle him."
"That was unnecessary, Montlouis," said Pontcalec; "we all know you, and we accept your proposition. Let those who are for flight hold up their hands."
Montlouis and Du Couëdic raised their hands.
"We are two and two," said Montlouis; "we must, then, trust to inspiration."
"You forget," said Pontcalec, "that, as president, I have two votes."
"It is true."
"Let those, then, who are for remaining here hold up their hands."
Pontcalec and Talhouet raised their hands; thus the majority was fixed.
This deliberation in the open street might have seemed absurd, had it not involved in its results the question of life or death to four of the noblest gentlemen in Bretagne.
"Well," said Montlouis, "it appears, Du Couëdic, that we were wrong: and now, marquis, we obey your orders."
"See what I do," said Pontcalec, "and then do as you like."
And he walked straight up to his house, followed by his three friends.
Arriving at the door, he tapped a soldier on the shoulder.
"My friend," said he, "call your officer, I beg."
The soldier passed the order to the sergeant, who called the captain.
"What do you want?" asked the latter.——"I want to come into my house."
"Who are you?"
"I am the Marquis de Pontcalec."
"Silence!" said the officer, in a low voice, "and fly instantly—I am here to arrest you." Then aloud, "You cannot pass," said he, pushing back the marquis, and closing in his soldiers before him.
Pontcalec took the officer's hand, pressed it, and said:
"You are a brave fellow, but I must go in. I thank you, and may God reward you!"
The officer, surprised, opened his ranks, and Pontcalec, followed by his friends, crossed the court. On seeing him, his family uttered cries of terror.
"What is it?" asked the marquis, calmly; "and what is going on here?"
"I arrest you, Monsieur le Marquis," said an exempt of the provost of Paris.
"Pardieu! what a fine exploit!" said Montlouis; "and you seem a clever fellow—you, a provost's exempt, and absolutely those whom you are sent to arrest are obliged to come and take you by the collar."
The exempt saluted this gentleman, who joked so pleasantly at such a time, and asked his name.
"I am Monsieur de Montlouis. Look, my dear fellow, if you have not got an order against me, too—if you have, execute it."
"Monsieur," said the exempt, bowing lower as he became more astonished, "it is not I, but my comrade, Duchevon, who is charged to arrest you; shall I tell him?"——"Where is he?"
"At your house, waiting for you."
"I should be sorry to keep you waiting long," said Montlouis, "and I will go to him. Thanks, my friend."
The exempt was bewildered.
Montlouis pressed Pontcalec's hand and those of the others; then, whispering a few words to them, he set out for his house, and was arrested.
Talhouet and Du Couëdic did the same; so that by eleven at night the work was over.
The news of the arrest ran through the town, but every one said, "The parliament will absolve them."
The next day, however, their opinions changed, for there arrived from Nantes the commission, perfectly constituted, and wanting, as we have said, neither president, procureur du roi, secretary, nor even executioners. We use the plural, for there were three.
The bravest men are sometimes stupefied by great misfortune. This fell on the province with the power and rapidity of a thunderstroke; it made no cry, no movement; Bretagne expired.
The commission installed itself at once, and expected that, in consideration of its powers, people would bow before it rather than give offense; but the terror was so great, that each one thought of themselves alone, and merely deplored the fate of the others.
This, then, was the state of affairs in Bretagne three or four days after the arrest of Pontcalec and his three friends. Let us leave them awhile at Nantes, in Dubois's toils, and see what was passing in Paris.
And now, with the reader's permission, we will enter the Bastille—that formidable building at which even the passing traveler trembled, and which, to the whole neighborhood, was an annoyance and cause of alarm; for often at night the cries of the unfortunate prisoners who were under torture might be heard piercing the thick walls, so much so, that the Duchesse de Lesdequieres once wrote to the governor, that, if he did not prevent his patients from making such a noise, she should complain to the king.
At this time, however, under the reign of Philippe d'Orleans, there were no cries to be heard; the society was select, and too well bred to disturb the repose of a lady.
In a room in the Du Coin tower, on the first floor, was a prisoner alone; the room was large, and resembled an immense tomb lighted by two windows, furnished with an unusual allowance of bars and irons. A painted couch, two rough wooden chairs, and a black table, were the whole furniture; the walls were covered with strange inscriptions, which the prisoner consulted from time to time when he was overcome by ennui.
ABBE BRIGAUD.
ABBE BRIGAUD.—Page517.
Link to larger image
He had, however, been but one day in the Bastille, and yet already he paced hisvast chamber, examining the iron-barred doors, looking through the grated windows, listening, sighing, waiting. This day, which was Sunday, a pale sun silvered the clouds, and the prisoner watched, with a feeling of inexpressible melancholy, the walkers on the Boulevards. It was easy to see that every passer-by looked at the Bastille with a feeling of terror, and of self-gratulation at not being within its walls. A noise of bolts and creaking hinges drew the prisoner from this sad occupation, and he saw the man enter before whom he had been taken the day before. This man, about thirty years of age, with an agreeable appearance and polite bearing, was the governor, M. de Launay, father of that De Launay who died at his post in '89.
The prisoner, who recognized him, did not know how rare such visits were.
"Monsieur de Chanlay," said the governor, bowing, "I come to know if you have passed a good night, and are satisfied with the fare of the house and the conduct of the employés"—thus M. de Launay, in his politeness, called the turnkeys and jailers.
"Yes, monsieur; and these attentions paid to a prisoner have surprised me, I own."
"The bed is hard and old, but yet it is one of the best; luxury being forbidden by our rules. Your room, monsieur, is the best in the Bastille; it has been occupied by the Duc d'Angoulême, by the Marquis de Bassompierre, and by the Marshals de Luxembourg and Biron; it is here that I lodge the princes when his majesty does me the honor to send them to me."
"It is an excellent lodging," said Gaston, smiling, "though ill furnished; can I have some books, some paper, and pens?"
"Books, monsieur, are strictly forbidden; but if you very much wish to read, as many things are allowed to a prisoner who is ennuyé, come and see me, then you can put in your pocket one of those volumes which my wife or I leave about; you will hide it from all eyes; on a second visit you will take the second volume, and to this abstraction we will close our eyes."
"And paper, pens, ink?" said Gaston, "I wish most particularly to write."
"No one writes here, monsieur; or, at least, only to the king, the regent, the minister, or to me; but they draw, and I can let you have drawing-paper and pencils."
"Monsieur, how can I thank you sufficiently for your kindness?"
"By granting me the request I came to make, for my visit is an interested one. I came to ask if you would do me the honor to dine with me to-day?"
"With you, monsieur! truly, you surprise me; however, I cannot tell you how sensible I am of your courtesy, and should retain for it an everlasting gratitude if I had any prospect but death before my eyes."
"Death! monsieur, you are gloomy; you should not think of these things—forget them and accept—"
"I do, monsieur."
"A la bonne heure," said the governor, bowing to Gaston, "I will take back your answer;" and he went out, leaving the prisoner plunged in a new train of ideas.
The politeness which at first charmed the chevalier, on reflection began to arouse some suspicion. Might it not be intended to inspire him with confidence, and lead him on to betray himself and his companions; he remembered the tragic chronicle of the Bastille, the snares laid for prisoners, and that famous dungeon chamber so much spoken of, which none who had entered ever left alive. Gaston felt himself alone and abandoned. He also felt that the crime he had meditated deserved death; did not all these flattering and strange advances conceal some snare? In fact, the Bastille had done its ordinary work; the prison acted on the prisoner, who became cold, suspicious, and uneasy.
"They take me for a provincial," he thought, "and they hope that—prudent in my interrogatories—I shall be imprudent in my conduct; they do not, they cannot, know my accomplices; and they hope that in giving me the means of communicating with them, of writing to them,or of inadvertently speaking of them, they will get something out of me. Dubois and D'Argenson are at the bottom of this."
Then Gaston thought of his friends who were waiting for him without news from him, who would not know what had become of him, or, worse still, on some false news, might act and ruin themselves.
Then came the thought of his poor Helene, isolated, as he himself was, whom he had not even presented to the Duc d'Olivares, her sole protector for the future, and who might himself be arrested or have taken flight. Then, what would become of Helene, without support, and pursued by that unknown person, who had sought her even in the heart of Bretagne?
In a paroxysm of despair at this thought, Gaston threw himself on his bed, cursing the doors and bars which imprisoned him, and striking the stones with his hands.
At this moment there was a noise at the door. Gaston rose hastily, and met D'Argenson with a law officer, and behind them an imposing escort of soldiers. He understood that he was to be interrogated.
D'Argenson, with his great wig, large black eyes, and dark shaggy eyebrows, made little impression on the chevalier; he knew that in joining the conspiracy he sacrificed his happiness, and that in entering the Bastille he had sacrificed his life. In this mood, it was difficult to frighten him. D'Argenson asked a hundred questions which Gaston refused to answer, replying only by complaints of being unjustly arrested, and demanding proof. M. d'Argenson became angry, and Gaston laughed in his face; then D'Argenson spoke of the Breton conspiracy; Gaston assumed astonishment, and listened to the list of his accomplices with the greatest sangfroid. When the magistrate had finished, he thanked him for giving him intelligence of events which were quite new to him. D'Argenson again lost patience, and gave his ordinary angry cough. Then he passed from interrogatory to accusation.
"You wanted to kill the regent," said he, all at once, to the chevalier.
"How do you know that?" asked Gaston, calmly.
"Never mind how, since I know it."
"Then I will answer you as Agamemnon did Achilles. Why ask, since you know it?"
"Monsieur, I am not jesting," said D'Argenson.
"Nor I," said Gaston; "I only quote Racine."
"Take care, monsieur, you may find this system of defense do you no good."
"Do you think it would be better to confess what you ask me?"
"It is useless to deny a fact which I am aware of."
"Then permit me to repeat my question: what is the use of asking me about a project of which apparently you are so much better informed than I am?"
"I want the details."
"Ask your police, which reads even people's most secret thoughts."
"Hum, hum," said D'Argenson, in a tone which, in spite of Gaston's courage, made some impression on him, "what would you say if I asked news of your friend La Jonquiere?"
"I should say," replied Gaston, turning pale, "that I hope the same mistake has not been made about him as about me."
"Ah!" said D'Argenson, "that name touches you, I think—you know M. la Jonquiere?"
"I know him as a friend, recommended to me to show me Paris."
"Yes—Paris and its environs; the Palais Royal, the Rue du Bac, or La Muette: he was to show you all these, was he not?"
"They know all," thought Gaston.
"Well, monsieur," said D'Argenson, "can you find another verse from Racine which will serve as an answer to my question?"
"Perhaps I might, if I knew what you meant; certainly I wished to see the Palais Royal, for it is a curious place, and I have heard it much spoken of. As to the Rue du Bac, I know little of it; then there only remains La Muette, of which I know nothing."
"I do not say that you have been there; I say that La Jonquiere was to take you there—do you dare to deny it."
"Ma foi, monsieur, I neither deny nor avow; I refer you to him; he will answer you if he think fit."
"It is useless, monsieur; he has been asked, and has replied."
Gaston felt a shudder pass through him. He might be betrayed, but he would divulge nothing. He kept silence.
D'Argenson waited a moment, then, seeing that Gaston remained silent—
"Would you like to meet La Jonquiere?" asked he.
"You can do with me as you please, monsieur," said Gaston; "I am in your hands."
But at the same time he resolved, if he were to face La Jonquiere, he would crush him beneath his contempt.
"It is well. As you say, I am the master, and I choose just now to apply the ordinary and extraordinary question: Do you know what they are, monsieur?" said D'Argenson, leaning on each syllable.
A cold sweat bathed Gaston's temples, not that he feared to die, but torture was worse than death. A victim of the torture was always disfigured or crippled, and the best of these alternatives was a cruel one for a young man of five and twenty.
D'Argenson saw, as in a mirror, what was passing in Gaston's mind.
"Hola!" said the interrogator.
Two men entered.
"Here is a gentleman who seems to have no dislike to the question ordinary or extraordinary. Take him to the room."
"It is the dark hour, the hour I expected," murmured Gaston. "Oh, my God! give me courage."
Doubtless his prayer was heard, for, making a sign that he was ready, he followed the guards with a firm step.
D'Argenson came behind him.
They descended the stone staircase and passed the first dungeon in the tower. There they crossed two courts. As they crossed the second court, some prisoners, looking through their windows and seeing a gentleman well dressed, called out:
"Hola! monsieur, you are set free then?"
A woman's voice added:
"Monsieur, if you are asked about us when you are free from here, say that we said nothing."
A young man's voice said:
"You are happy, monsieur—you will see her you love."
"You are mistaken, monsieur," said the chevalier. "I am about to suffer the question."
A terrible silence succeeded. Then the sad procession went over the drawbridge, Gaston was placed in a closed and locked chair and taken to the arsenal, which was separated from the Bastille by a narrow passage.
D'Argenson had taken the lead, and awaited the prisoner, who found himself in a low room covered with damp. On the wall hung chains, collars, and other strange instruments; chafing dishes stood on the ground, and crosses of Saint Andre were in the corner.
"You see this," said D'Argenson, showing the chevalier two rings fastened into flagstones at six feet apart, and separated by a wooden bench about three feet high; "in these rings are placed the head and feet of the patient; then this tressel is placed under him, so that his stomach is two feet higher than his mouth; then we pour pots of water holding two pints each into his mouth. The number is fixed at eight for the ordinary, ten for the extraordinary question. If the patient refuses to swallow, we pinch his nose so that he cannot breathe; then he opens his mouth, then he swallows. This question," continued he, emphasizing every detail, "is very disagreeable, and yet I do not think I should prefer the boot. Both kill sometimes; the boot disfigures the patient, and it is true that the water destroys his health for the future; but it is rare, for the prisoner always speaks at the ordinary question if he be guilty, and generally at the extraordinary, if he be not."
Gaston, pale and silent, listened and watched.
"Do you prefer the wedges, chevalier? Here, bring the wedges."
A man brought six wedges and showed them, still stained with blood and flattened at the edges by the blows which had been struck upon them.
"Do you know the way in which these are used? The knees and ankles of the patient are pressed between two wooden slabs as tightly as possible, then one of these men forces a wedge between the knees, which is followed by a larger one. There are eight for the ordinary torture, and two larger for the extraordinary. These wedges, I warn you, chevalier, break bones like glass, and wound the flesh insupportably."
"Enough, enough," said Gaston, "unless you wish to double the torture by describing it; but, if it be only to guide my choice, I leave it to you, as you must know them better than I, and I shall be grateful if you will choose the one which will kill me most quickly."
D'Argenson could not conceal the admiration with which Gaston's strength of will inspired him.
"Come," said he, "speak, and you shall not be tortured."
"I have nothing to say, monsieur, so I cannot."
"Do not play the Spartan, I advise you. One may cry, but between the cries one always speaks under torture."
"Try," said Gaston.
Gaston's resolute air, in spite of the struggle of nature—a struggle which was evidenced by his paleness, and by a slight nervous tremor which shook him—gave D'Argenson the measure of his courage. He was accustomed to this kind of thing, and was rarely mistaken. He saw that he should get nothing out of him, yet he persisted.
"Come, monsieur," said he, "it is still time. Do not force us to do you any violence."
"Monsieur," said Gaston, "I swear before God who hears me, that if you put me to the torture, instead of speaking, I will hold my breath, and stifle myself, if the thing be possible. Judge, then, if I am likely to yield to threats, where I am determined not to yield to pain."
D'Argenson signed to the tormentors, who approached Gaston; but, as they did so, he seemed to gain new strength. With a calm smile, he helped them to remove his coat and to unfasten his cuffs.
"It is to be the water, then?" asked the man.
"The water first," said D'Argenson.
They passed the cords through the rings, brought the tressels, filled the vases—Gaston did not flinch.
D'Argenson reflected.
After about ten minutes' thought, which seemed an age to the chevalier—
"Let him go," said D'Argenson, with a grunt of discontent, "and take him back to the Bastille."
Gaston was inclined to thank the lieutenant of police, but he refrained. It might appear as though he had been afraid. He took his hat and coat, and returned to the Bastille as he had come.
"They did not like to put a man of high birth to the torture," thought he; "they will try me and condemn me to death."
But death seemed easy when divested of the preliminary agonies which the lieutenant of police had so minutely described.
On re-entering his room, Gaston saw, almost with joy, all that had seemed so horrible to him an hour before. The prison seemed gay, the view charming, the saddest inscriptions on the walls were madrigals compared to the menacing appearance of the room he had just quitted.
The major of the Bastille came to fetch him about an hour afterward, accompanied by a turnkey.
"I understand," thought Gaston; "the governor's invitation is a pretext, in such a case, to take from the prisoner the anguish of expectation. I shall, doubtless, cross some dungeon, into which I shall fall and die. God's will be done." And, with a firm step, he followed the major, expecting every moment to be precipitated into some secret dungeon, and murmuring Helene's name, that he might die with it on his lips.
But, no accident following this poetical and loving invocation, the prisoner quietly arrived at the governor's door.
M. de Launay came to meet him.
"Will you give me your word of honor, chevalier," said he, "not to attempt to escape while you are in my house? It is understood, of course," he added, smiling, "that this parole is withdrawn as soon as you are taken back to your own room, and it is only a precaution to insure me a continuance of your society."
"I give you my word so far," said Gaston.
"'Tis well, monsieur, enter; you are expected."
And he led Gaston to a well-furnished room, where a numerous company was already assembled.
"I have the honor to present to you M. le Chevalier Gaston de Chanlay," said the governor. Then naming, in turn, each of the persons assembled—
"M. le Duc de Richelieu."
"M. le Comte de Laval."
"M. le Chevalier Dumesnil."
"M. de Malezieux."
"Ah," said Gaston, smiling, "all the Cellamare conspiracy."
"Except M. and Madame de Maine, and the Prince of Cellamare," said the Abbe Brigaud, bowing.
"Ah, monsieur," said Gaston, in a reproachful tone, "you forget the brave D'Harmental and the learned Mademoiselle de Launay."
"D'Harmental is kept in bed by his wounds," said Brigaud.
"As to Mademoiselle de Launay," said the Chevalier Dumesnil, reddening with pleasure, "here she comes; she does us the honor of dining with us."
"Present me, monsieur," said Gaston; "among prisoners we must not make ceremonies; I reckon, therefore, on you."'
And Dumesnil, taking Gaston by the hand, presented him to Mademoiselle de Launay.
Gaston could not repress a certain expression of astonishment at all he saw.
"Ah, chevalier," said the governor, "I see that, like three-quarters of the inhabitants of Paris, you thought I devoured my prisoners."
"No, monsieur," said Gaston, "but I certainly thought for a moment that I should not have had the honor of dining with you to-day."——"How so?"
"Is it the habit to give your prisoners an appetite for their dinners by the walk I have had to-day?"
"Ah, yes," cried Mademoiselle de Launay, "was it not you who were being led to the torture just now?"
"Myself, mademoiselle; and be assured that only such a hindrance would have kept me from so charming a society."
"Ah, these things are not in my jurisdiction," said the governor; "thank Heaven, I am a soldier, and not a judge. Do not confound arms and the toga, as Cicero says. My business is to keep you here, and to make your stay as agreeable as possible, so that I may have the pleasure of seeing you again. M. d'Argenson's business is to have you tortured, hanged, beheaded, put on the wheel, quartered, if possible; each to his task. Mademoiselle de Launay," added he, "dinner is ready, will you take my arm? Your pardon, Chevalier Dumesnil; you think me a tyrant, I am sure, but as host I am privileged. Gentlemen, seat yourselves."
"What a horrible thing a prison is," said Richelieu, delicately turning up his cuffs, "slavery, irons, bolts, chains."
"Shall I pass you this potage à l'écrevisses?" said the governor.
"Yes, monsieur," said the duke, "your cook does it beautifully, and I am really annoyed that mine did not conspire with me; he might have profited by his stay in the Bastille."
"There is champagne," said De Launay, "I have it direct from Ai."
"You must give me the address," said Richelieu, "for if the regent leaves me my head, I shall drink no other wine than this. I have got accustomed to it during my sojourns here, and I am a creature of habit."
"Indeed," said the governor, "you may all take example by Richelieu; he is most faithful to me; and, in fact, unlesswe are overcrowded, I always keep his room ready for him."
"That tyrant of a regent may force us all to keep a room here," said Brigaud.
"Monsieur de Launay," said Laval, in an angry tone, "permit me to ask if it was by your orders that I was awoke at two o'clock this morning, and the meaning of this persecution?"
"It is not my fault, monsieur; you must blame these gentlemen and ladies, who will not keep quiet, in spite of all I tell them."
"We!" cried all the guests.
"Certainly," replied the governor, "you all break through rules; I am always having reports of communications, correspondences, notes, etc."
Richelieu laughed, Dumesnil and Mademoiselle de Launay blushed.
"But we will speak of that at dessert. You do not drink, M. de Chanlay?"
"No, I am listening."
"Say that you are dreaming; you cannot deceive me thus."
"And of what?" asked Malezieux.
"Ah, it is easy to see that you are getting old, my poetical friend; of what should M. de Chanlay dream but of his love."
"Is it not better, M. de Chanlay," cried Richelieu, "to have your head separated from your body, than your body from your soul?"
"Apropos," interrupted Laval, "is there any news from the court; how is the king?"
"No politics, gentlemen, if you please," said the governor. "Let us discuss poetry, arts, war, and even the Bastille, if you like, but let us avoid politics."
"Ah, yes," said Richelieu, "let us talk of the Bastille. What have you done with Pompadour?"
"I am sorry to say he forced me to place him in the dungeon."
"What had he done?" asked Gaston.
"He had beaten his jailer."
"How long has it been forbidden for a gentleman to beat his servant?" asked Richelieu.
"The jailers are servants of the king, M. le Duc," said De Launay, smiling.
"Say rather of the regent."
"A subtle distinction."
"A just one."
"Shall I pass you the Chambertin, M. de Laval?"
"If you will drink with me to the health of the king."
"Certainly—if afterward you will drink with me to the health of the regent."
"Monsieur," said Laval, "I am no longer thirsty."
"I believe it—you have just drunk some wine from his highness's cellar."
"From the regent's?"
"He sent it me yesterday, knowing that I was to have the pleasure of your company."
"In that case," said Brigaud, throwing the contents of his glass upon the floor, "no more poison."
"Oh!" said Malezieux, "I did not know you were such a fanatic for the good cause."
"You were wrong to spill it, abbe," said Richelieu, "I know that wine, and you will hardly find such out of the Palais Royal—if it were against your principles to drink it, you should have passed it to your neighbor, or put it back in the bottle. 'Vinum in amphoram,' said my schoolmaster."
"M. le Duc," said Brigaud, "you do not know Latin as well as Spanish."
"I know French still less, and I want to learn it."
"Oh! that would be long and tedious; better get admitted into the Academy, it would be far easier."
"And do you speak Spanish?" asked Richelieu of De Chanlay.
"Report says, monsieur, that I am here for the abuse of that tongue."
"Monsieur," said the governor, "if you return to politics I must leave the table."
"Then," said Richelieu, "tell Mademoiselle de Launay to talk mathematics; that will not frighten any one."
Mademoiselle de Launay started; she had been carrying on a conversation with Dumesnil, which had been greatly exciting the jealousy of Maison-Rouge, who was in love with her.
When dinner was over, the governor conducted each guest back to his own room, and when it came to Gaston's turn he asked M. de Launay if he could have some razors, instruments which appeared necessary in a place where such elegant company was assembled.
"Monsieur le Chevalier," said the governor, "I am distressed to refuse you a thing of which I see the necessity; but it is against the rules for any one to shave themselves unless they have special permission from the lieutenant of police—no doubt you will obtain the permission if you apply for it."
"But are those gentlemen whom I met here privileged, for they were well dressed and shaved?"