MADEMOISELLE DE LAUNAY.
MADEMOISELLE DE LAUNAY.—Page538.
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"You permit me?"
"Certainly."
A moment's silence.
"Well," said Gaston.
"Diable!"
"Bad news, is it not?"
"Judge for yourself."
And Dumesnil read:
"My dear Neighbor—Some judge extraordinary has arrived at the arsenal this evening. I recognized D'Argenson's livery. We shall know more soon, when I see the doctor. A thousand remembrances to Dumesnil."
"My dear Neighbor—Some judge extraordinary has arrived at the arsenal this evening. I recognized D'Argenson's livery. We shall know more soon, when I see the doctor. A thousand remembrances to Dumesnil."
"That is what La Jonquiere told me; it is I that am condemned."
"Bah, chevalier," said Dumesnil; "you are too easily alarmed."
"Not at all. I know well what to think, and then—hark!"
"What!"
"Silence; some one is coming." And Gaston went away from the chimney.
The door opened, and the major and lieutenant, with four soldiers, came for Gaston, who followed them.
"I am lost," murmured he. "Poor Helene."
And he raised his head with the intrepidity of a brave man, who, knowing death was near, went boldly to meet it.
"Monsieur," said D'Argenson, "your crime has been examined by the tribunal of which I am the president. In the preceding sittings you were permitted to defend yourself; if you were not granted advocates, it was not with the intention of inquiring your defense, but, on the contrary, because it was useless to give you the extreme indulgence of a tribunal charged to be severe."
"I do not understand you."
"Then I will be more explicit. Discussion would have made one thing evident, even in the eyes of your defenders—that you are a conspirator and an assassin. How could you suppose that with these points established indulgence would be shown you. But here you are before us, every facility will be given for your justification. If you ask a delay, you shall have it. If you wish researches, they shall be made. If you speak, you have the reply, and it will not be refused you."
"I understand, and thank the tribunal for this kindness," replied Gaston. "The excuse it gives me for the absence of a defender seems sufficient. I have not to defend myself."
"Then you do not wish for witnesses, delays, or documents?"
"I wish my sentence—that is all."
"Do not be obstinate, chevalier; make some confessions."
"I have none to make, for in all my interrogatories you have not made one precise accusation."
"And you wish—?"
"Certainly—I should like to know of what I am accused."
"I will tell you. You came to Paris, appointed by the republican committee of Nantes, to assassinate the regent. You were referred to one La Jonquiere, your accomplice, now condemned with you."
Gaston felt that he turned pale at these true accusations. "This might be true, monsieur," said he, "but you could not know it. A man who wishes to commit such a deed does not confess it till it be accomplished."
"No; but his accomplices confess for him."
"That is to say, that La Jonquiere denounces me."
"I do not refer to La Jonquiere, but the others."
"The others!" cried Gaston; "are there, then, others arrested beside La Jonquiere and myself?"
"Yes. Messieurs de Pontcalec, de Talhouet, du Couëdic, and de Montlouis."
"I do not understand," said Gaston, with a vague feeling of terror—not for himself, but for his friends.
"What! do you not understand that Messieurs de Pontcalec, de Talhouet, du Couëdic, and de Montlouis are now being tried at Nantes?"
"Arrested!" cried Gaston, "impossible!"
"Yes," said D'Argenson, "you thought that the province would revolt rather than allow its defenders—as you rebelscall yourselves—to be arrested. Well, the province has said nothing. The province has gone on singing, laughing, and dancing, and is already asking where they will be beheaded, in order to hire windows."
"I do not believe you, monsieur," said Gaston, coldly.
"Give me that portfolio," said D'Argenson to a man standing behind him. "Here, monsieur," continued he, "are the writs of arrest. Do you doubt their authenticity?"
"That does not say that they have accused me."
"They told all we wanted to know, and your culpability is the result."
"In that case, if they have told all you want to know, you have no need of my confession."
"Is that your final answer?"
"Yes."
"Officer, read the sentence."
The officer read—
"As the result of the investigation commenced on the 19th of February, that M. Gaston de Chanlay came from Nantes to Paris with the intention of committing the crime of murder on the person of his Royal Highness Monseigneur the Regent of France, which was to have been followed by a revolt against the authority of the king, the extraordinary commission instituted to inquire into this crime has adjudged the Chevalier Gaston de Chanlay worthy of the punishment for high treason, the person of the regent being as inviolable as that of the king. In consequence—We ordain that the Chevalier Gaston de Chanlay be degraded from all his titles and dignities; that he and his posterity be declared ignoble in perpetuity; that his goods be confiscated, his woods cut down to the height of six feet from the ground, and he himself beheaded on the Greve, or wheresoever it shall please the provost to appoint, saving his majesty's pardon."
Gaston was pale, but still as marble.
"And when am I to be executed?" asked he.
"As soon as it may please his majesty."
Gaston felt a cloud pass before his eyes, and his ideas became confused; but this soon vanished, and the serenity of his bearing returned, the blood rushed back to his cheeks, and a contemptuous smile settled on his lips.
"It is well, monsieur," said he; "at whatever moment his majesty's order may arrive, it will find me prepared; but I wish to know whether I may not see some persons who are very dear to me before I die, and I wish to ask a favor of the king."
D'Argenson's eyes glistened with malignant joy. "Monsieur," said he, "I told you that you would be treated with indulgence. You might therefore have spoken sooner, and perhaps his highness's kindness might not have waited for a prayer."
"You mistake me, monsieur," said Gaston, with dignity; "neither his majesty's honor nor mine will suffer from the favor which I shall ask."
"What would you ask?" said D'Argenson; "speak, and I will tell you at once if there be a chance of your request being granted."
"I ask, first, that my titles and dignities—which are not very great—should not be canceled, as I have no posterity. I am alone in the world; my name only survives me; but as that name is only noble, and not illustrious, it would not survive long."
"This is quite a royal favor, monsieur. His majesty alone can and will reply. Is that all you wish to ask?"
"No; I have another request to make, but I do not know to whom I should apply."
"First to me, monsieur, in my character of lieutenant of police. I shall see if I can grant it, or if I must refer it to his majesty."
"Well, then, monsieur, I desire to see Mademoiselle Helene de Chaverny, ward of his excellency the Duc d'Olivares, and also the duke himself."
D'Argenson, at this request, made a singular gesture, which Gaston interpreted as one of hesitation.
"Monsieur," said Gaston, "I would seethem in any place, and for as short a time as may be thought advisable."
"You shall see them," said D'Argenson.
"Ah! monsieur," said Gaston, stepping forward as though to take his hand, "you lay me under the greatest obligation."
"On one condition, however, monsieur."
"What is it? there is no condition compatible with my honor that I will not accept in exchange for so great a favor."
"You must tell no one of your condemnation, and this on your word as a gentleman."
"I accede to that all the more willingly," said Gaston, "as one of the persons named would certainly die if she knew of it."
"Then all is well; have you anything further to say?"
"Nothing, monsieur, except to beg that you will record my denials."
"They are already firmly attached—officer, hand the papers to Monsieur de Chanlay, that he may read and sign them."
Gaston sat down by a table, and, while D'Argenson and the judges chatted around him, he carefully perused the papers and the report of his own answers to the interrogatory—then, finding all correct, he signed.
"Monsieur," said he, "here are the documents. Shall I have the pleasure of seeing you again?"
"I do not think so," said D'Argenson, with that brutality which was the terror of those who were subjected to him.
"Then to our meeting in another world, monsieur."
The major led Gaston to his own room.
When Gaston returned to his room, he was obliged to answer the questions of Dumesnil and Pompadour, who were waiting to hear news from him; but, in compliance with his promise made to D'Argenson, he did not mention his sentence, but simply announced a severer interrogatory than before—but as he wished to write some letters, he asked Dumesnil for a light. Dumesnil sent him a candle—things were progressing, it may be remarked; Maison-Rouge could refuse nothing to Mademoiselle de Launay, and she shared all with Dumesnil, who, in his turn, again shared with his neighbors, Gaston and Richelieu.
Gaston doubted whether, in spite of D'Argenson's promise, he would be allowed to see Helene, but he knew that at least he should see a priest before he died; there could be no doubt that the priest would forward two letters for him.
As he began to write, Mademoiselle de Launay made a signal that she had something to send him; it was a letter. Gaston read:
"Our friend—for you are our friend, and now we have no secrets from you—tell Dumesnil of the famous hope I conceived after the word that Herment said to me."
Gaston's heart beat. Might not he also find in this letter some ground for hope? Had they not said that his fate could not be separated from the others? It is true that those who had said so did not know of his conspiracy. He read on:
"An hour ago the doctor came, accompanied by Maison-Rouge; from the latter's manner I drew the most favorable augury; however, when I asked to speak in private, or, at least, to whisper to the doctor, he made some difficulties, which I removed with a smile. 'At least,' said he, 'no one must know that I am out of hearing. I should lose my place if it were known how weak I am.' This tone of love and interest combined seemed to me so grotesque that I laughingly promised him what he asked; you see how I keep my promise. He went to a distance, and Herment approached. Then commenced a dialogue, wherein the gestures meant one thing while the voice declared another. 'You have good friends,' said Herment; 'friends in good places, who are greatly interested for you.' I naturally thought of Madame de Maine. 'Ah, monsieur,' I cried, 'have you anything for me?' 'Hush,' said Herment. Judge how my heart beat."
Gaston felt his own beating vigorously.
"'And what have you to give me?' 'Oh, nothing myself: but you will have the object agreed upon.' 'But what is the object? Speak!' 'The beds in the Bastille are known to be bad, and particularly badly covered, and I am commissioned to offer you—' 'What?' 'A coverlet.' I burst out laughing; the devotion of my friends was shown in preventing my catching cold. 'My dear Monsieur Herment,' said I, 'in my present position it would be better if my friends were to occupy themselves less about my feet and more about my head.' 'It is a female friend,' said he. 'Who is it?' 'Mademoiselle de Charolais,' said Herment, lowering his voice, so that I could scarcely hear him. Then he withdrew. I, my dear chevalier, am now waiting for Mademoiselle de Charolais's coverlet. Tell this to Dumesnil; it will make him laugh."
Gaston sighed. The gayety of those around him weighed heavily on his heart. It was a new torture which they had invented, in forbidding him to confide his fate to any one; it seemed to him that he should have found consolation in the tears of his two neighbors. He had not the courage to read the letter to Dumesnil, so he passed it on to him, and a moment after heard shouts of laughter.
At this moment Gaston was saying adieu to Helene.
After passing a part of the night in writing, he slept; at five-and-twenty one must sleep, even if it be just before death.
In the morning Gaston's breakfast was brought at the usual hour, but he remarked that it was morerecherchéthan usual; he smiled at this attention, and as he was finishing, the governor entered.
Gaston with a rapid glance interrogated his expression, which was calm and courteous as ever. Was he also ignorant of the sentence, or was he wearing a mask?
"Monsieur," said he, "will you take the trouble to descend to the council-chamber?"
Gaston rose. He seemed to hear a buzzing in his ears, for to a man condemned to death every injunction which he does not understand is a torture.
"May I know the reason, monsieur?" asked Gaston, in so calm a tone that it was impossible to detect his real emotion.
"To receive a visit," replied the governor. "Yesterday, after the interrogatory, did you not ask the lieutenant of police to be allowed to see some one?"
Gaston started.
"And is it that person?" asked he.
"Yes, monsieur."
Gaston had asked for two persons; the governor only announced one; which one was it? He had not the courage to ask, and silently followed the governor.
De Launay led Gaston to the council-chamber; on entering, he cast an eager glance around, but the room was empty.
"Remain here, monsieur; the person whom you expect is coming," said the governor, who bowed and went out.
Gaston ran to the window, which was barred, and looked out—there was a sentinel before it.
The door opened, and Gaston, turning round, faced the Duc d'Olivares.
"Ah, monsieur," cried he, "how good of you to come at the request of a poor prisoner."
"It was a duty," replied the duke, "besides, I had to thank you."
"Me!" said Gaston, astonished; "what have I done to merit your excellency's thanks?"
"You have been interrogated, taken to the torture-chamber, given to understand that you might save yourself by naming your accomplices, and yet you kept silence."
"I made an engagement and kept it: that does not deserve any thanks, monseigneur."
"And now, monsieur, tell me if I can serve you in anything."
"First, tell me about yourself; have you been molested, monseigneur?"
"Not at all: and if all the Bretons are as discreet as you, I doubt not that my name will never be mentioned in these unfortunate debates."
"Oh, I will answer for them as for myself, monseigneur; but can you answer for La Jonquiere?"
"La Jonquiere!" repeated the duke.
"Yes. Do you not know that he is arrested?"
"Yes; I heard something of it."
"Well, I ask you, monseigneur, what you think of him?"
"I can tell you nothing, except that he hasmyconfidence."
"If so, he must be worthy of it, monseigneur. That is all I wished to know."
"Then come to the request you had to make."
"Have you seen the young girl I brought to your house?"
"Mademoiselle Helene de Chaverny? Yes."
"Well, monsieur, I had not time to tell you then, but I tell you now, that I have loved her for a year. The dream of that year has been to consecrate my life to her happiness. I say the dream, monseigneur; for, on awaking, I saw that all hope of happiness was denied me; and yet, to give this young girl a name, a position, a fortune, at the moment of my arrest, she was about to become my wife."
"Without the knowledge of her parents or the consent of her family?" cried the duke.
"She had neither, monseigneur; and was probably about to be sold to some nobleman when she left the person who had been set to watch her."
"But who informed you that Mademoiselle Helene de Chaverny was to be the victim of a shameful bargain?"
"What she herself told me of a pretended father, who concealed himself; of diamonds which had been offered to her. Then, do you know where I found her, monseigneur? In one of those houses destined to the pleasures of our roués. She! an angel of innocence and purity. In short, monseigneur, this young girl fled with me, in spite of the cries of her duenna, in broad daylight, and in the face of the servants who surrounded her. She stayed two hours alone with me; and, though she is as pure as on the day when she received her mother's first kiss, she is not the less compromised. I wish this projected marriage to take place."
"In your situation, monsieur?"
"A still greater reason."
"But perhaps you may deceive yourself as to the punishment reserved for you!"
"It is probably the same which, under similar circumstances, was inflicted on the Count de Chalais, the Marquis de Cinq-Mars, and the Chevalier Louis de Rohan."
"Then you are prepared even for death, monsieur?"
"I prepared for it from the day I joined the conspiracy: the conspirator's only excuse is, that, while robbing others of their lives, he risks his own."
"And what will this young girl gain by the marriage?"
"Monseigneur, though not rich, I have some fortune; she is poor; I have a name, and she has none. I would leave her my name and fortune; and with that intention I have already petitioned the king that my goods may not be confiscated, nor my name declared infamous. Were it known for what reason I ask this, it would doubtless be granted; if I die without making her my wife, she will be supposed to be my mistress, and will be dishonored, lost, and there will be no future for her. If, on the contrary, by your protection, or that of your friends (and that protection I earnestly implore), we are united, no one can reproach her—the blood which flows for a political offense does not disgrace a family—no shame will fall on my widow; and if she cannot be happy, she will at least be independent and respected. This is the favor which I have to ask, monseigneur; is it in your power to obtain it for me?"
The duke went to the door and struck three blows: Maison-Rouge appeared.
"Ask M. de Launay, from me," said the duke, "whether the young girl who is at the door in my carriage may come in? Her visit, as he knows, is authorized. You will have the kindness to conduct her here."
"What! monseigneur; Helene is here—at the door?"
"Were you not promised that she should come?"
"Yes; but seeing you alone, I lost all hope."
"I wished to see you first, thinking that you might have many things to say which you would not wish her to hear; for I know all."
"You know all! What do you mean?"
"I know that you were taken to the arsenal yesterday!"
"Monseigneur!"
"I know that you found D'Argenson there, and that he read your sentence."
"Mon Dieu!"
"I know that you are condemned to death, and that you were bound not to speak of it to any one."
"Oh, monseigneur, silence! One word of this would kill Helene."
"Be easy, monsieur; but let us see; is there no way of avoiding this execution?"
"Days would be necessary to prepare and execute a plan of escape, and I scarcely have hours."
"I do not speak of escape; I ask if you have no excuse to give for your crime?"
"My crime!" cried Gaston, astonished to hear his accomplice use such a word.
"Yes," replied the duke: "you know that men stigmatize murder with this name under all circumstances; but posterity often judges differently, and sometimes calls it a grand deed."
"I have no excuse to give, monseigneur, except that I believe the death of the regent to be necessary to the salvation of France."
"Yes," replied the duke, smiling; "but you will see that that is scarcely the excuse to offer to Philippe d'Orleans. I wanted something personal. Political enemy of the regent's as I am, I know that he is not considered a bad man. Men say that he is merciful, and that there have been no executions during his reign."
"You forget Count Horn."
"He was an assassin."
"And what am I?"
"There is this difference: Count Horn murdered in order to rob."
"I neither can nor will ask anything of the regent," said Gaston.
"Not you, personally, I know; but your friends. If they had a plausible pretense to offer, perhaps the prince himself might pardon you."
"I have none, monseigneur."
"It is impossible, monsieur—permit me to say so. A resolution such as you have taken must proceed from a sentiment of some kind—either of hatred or vengeance. And stay; I remember you told La Jonquiere, who repeated it to me, that there was a family feud: tell me the cause."
"It is useless, monseigneur, to tire you with that; it would not interest you."
"Never mind, tell it me."
"Well, the regent killed my brother."
"The regent killed your brother! how so? it is—impossible, Monsieur de Gaston," said the Duc d'Olivares.
"Yes, killed; if from the effect we go to the cause."
"Explain yourself; how could the regent do this?"
"My brother, who, being fifteen years of age when my father died, three months before my birth, stood to me in the place of that father, and of mother, who died when I was still in the cradle—my brother loved a young girl who was brought up in a convent by the orders of the prince."
"Do you know in what convent?"
"No: I only know that it was at Paris."
The duke murmured some words which Gaston could not hear.
"My brother, a relation of the abbess, had seen this young girl and asked her hand in marriage. The prince's consent to this union had been asked, and he made a pretense of granting it, when this young girl, seduced by her so-called protector, suddenly disappeared. For three months my brother hoped to find her, but all his searches were vain; he found no trace of her, and in despair he sought death in the battle of Ramillies."
"And what was the name of this girl!"
"No one ever knew, monseigneur; to speak her name was to dishonor it."
"It was doubtless she," murmured the duke, "it was Helene's mother; and your brother was called—?" added he aloud.
"Olivier de Chanlay, monseigneur."
"Olivier de Chanlay!" repeated the duke, in a low voice. "I knew the name of De Chanlay was not strange to me."Then, aloud, "Continue, monsieur; I listen to you."
"You do not know what a family hatred is in a province like ours. I had lavished upon my brother all the love which would have fallen to the share of my father and mother, and now I suddenly found myself alone in the world. I grew up in isolation of heart, and in the hope of revenge; I grew up among people who were constantly repeating, 'It was the Duc d'Orleans who killed your brother.' Then the duke became regent, the Breton league was therefore organized. I was one of the first to join it. You know the rest. You see that there is nothing in all this which has any interest for your excellency."
"You mistake, monsieur; unfortunately, the regent has to reproach himself with many such faults."
"You see, therefore," said Gaston, "that my destiny must be accomplished, and that I can ask nothing of this man."
"You are right, monsieur; whatever is done must be done without you."
At this moment the door opened and Maison-Rouge appeared.
"Well, monsieur?" asked the duke.
"The governor has an order from the lieutenant of police to admit Mademoiselle Helene de Chaverny; shall I bring her here?"
"Monseigneur," said Gaston, looking at the duke with an air of entreaty.
"Yes, monsieur," said he, "I understand—grief and love do not need witnesses—I will come back to fetch Mademoiselle Helene."
"The permission is for half an hour," said Maison-Rouge.
"Then at the end of that time I will return," said the duke, and bowing to Gaston, he went out.
An instant after the door opened again, and Helene appeared, trembling, and questioning Maison-Rouge, but he retired without replying.
Helene looked round and saw Gaston, and for a few minutes all their sorrows were forgotten in a close and passionate embrace. "And now—" cried Helene, her face bathed in tears.
"Well! and now?" asked Gaston.
"Alas! to see you here—in prison," murmured Helene, with an air of terror, "here, where I dare not speak freely, where we may be watched—overheard."
"Do not complain, Helene, for this is an exception in our favor; a prisoner is never allowed to press one who is dear to him to his heart; the visitor generally stands against that wall, the prisoner against this, a soldier is placed between, and the conversation must be fixed beforehand."
"To whom do we owe this favor?"
"Doubtless to the regent; for yesterday, when I asked permission of Monsieur d'Argenson, he said that it was beyond his power to grant, and that he must refer it to the regent."
"But now that I see you again, Gaston, tell me all that has passed in this age of tears and suffering. Ah! tell me; but my presentiments did not deceive me; you were conspiring—do not deny it—I know it."
"Yes; Helene, you know that we Bretons are constant both in our loves and our hatreds. A league was organized in Bretagne, in which all our nobles took part—could I act differently from my brothers? I ask you, Helene, could I, or ought I to have done so? Would you not have despised me, if, when you had seen all Bretagne under arms, I alone had been inactive—a whip in my hand while others held the sword?"
"Oh! yes; you are right; but why did you not remain in Bretagne with the others?"
"The others are arrested also, Helene."
"Then you have been denounced—betrayed."
"Probably—but sit down, Helene; now that we are alone, let me look at you, and tell you that you are beautiful, that I love you. How have you been in my absence—has the duke—"
"Oh! if you only knew how good he is to me; every evening he comes to see me, and his care and attention—"
"And," said Gaston, who thought of the suggestion of the false La Jonquiere, "nothing suspicious in those attentions?"
"What do you mean, Gaston?"
"That the duke is still young, and that, as I told you just now, you are beautiful."
"Oh, Heaven! no! Gaston; this time there is not a shadow of doubt; and when he was there near me—as near as you are now—there were moments when it seemed as if I had found my father."
"Poor child!"
"Yes, by a strange chance, for which I cannot account, there is a resemblance between the duke's voice and that of the man who came to see me at Rambouillet—it struck me at once."
"You think so?" said Gaston, in an abstracted tone.
"What are you thinking of, Gaston?" asked Helene; "you seem scarcely to hear what I am saying to you."
"Helene, every word you speak goes to the inmost depth of my heart."
"You are uneasy, I understand. To conspire is to stake your life; but be easy, Gaston—I have told the duke that if you die I shall die too."
Gaston started.
"You are an angel," said he.
"Oh, my God!" cried poor Helene, "how horrible to know that the man I love runs a danger—all the more terrible for being uncertain; to feel that I am powerless to aid him, and that I can only shed tears when I would give my life to save him."
Gaston's face lit up with a flush of joy; it was the first time that he had ever heard such words from the lips of his beloved; and under the influence of an idea which had been occupying him for some minutes—
"Yes, dearest," said he, taking her hand, "you can do much for me."
"What can I do?"
"You can become my wife."
Helene started.
"I your wife, Gaston?" cried she.
"Yes, Helene; this plan, formed in our liberty, may be executed in captivity. Helene, my wife before God and man, in this world and the next, for time and for eternity. You can do this for me, Helene, and am I not right in saying that you can do much?"
"Gaston," said she, looking at him fixedly, "you are hiding something from me."
It was Gaston's turn to start now.
"I!" said he, "what should I conceal from you?"
"You told me you saw M. d'Argenson yesterday?"
"Well, what then?"
"Well, Gaston," said Helene, turning pale, "you are condemned."
Gaston took a sudden resolution.
"Yes," said he, "I am condemned to exile; and, egotist as I am, I would bind you to me by indissoluble ties before I leave France."
"Is that the truth, Gaston?"
"Yes; have you the courage to be my wife, Helene? to be exiled with me?"
"Can you ask it, Gaston?" said she, her eyes lighted with enthusiasm, "exile—I thank thee, my God—I, who would have accepted an eternal prison with you, and have thought myself blessed—I may accompany, follow you? Oh, this condemnation is, indeed, a joy after what we feared! Gaston, Gaston, at length we shall be happy."
"Yes, Helene," said Gaston, with an effort.
"Picture my happiness," cried Helene; "to me France is the country where you are; your love is the only country I desire. I know I shall have to teach you to forget Bretagne, your friends, and your dreams of the future; but I will love you, so that it will be easy for you to forget them."
Gaston could do nothing but cover her hands with kisses.
"Is the place of your exile fixed?" said she; "tell me, when do you go? shall we go together?"
"My Helene," replied Gaston, "it is impossible; we must be separated for a time. I shall be taken to the frontier of France—I do not as yet know, which—and set free. Once out of the kingdom, you shall rejoin me."
"Oh, better than that, Gaston—better than that. By means of the duke I will discover the place of your exile, and instead of joining you there, I will be thereto meet you. As you step from the carriage which brings you, you shall find me waiting to soften the pain of your adieux to France; and then, death alone is irretrievable; later, the king may pardon you; later still, and the action punished to-day may be looked upon as a deed to be rewarded. Then we will return; then nothing need keep us from Bretagne, the cradle of our love, the paradise of our memories. Oh!" continued she, in an accent of mingled love and impatience, "tell me, Gaston, that you share my hopes, that you are content, that you are happy."
"Yes, Helene, I now am happy, indeed; for now—and only now—I know by what an angel I am beloved. Yes, dearest, one hour of such love as yours, and then death would be better than a whole life with the love of any other."
"Well!" exclaimed Helene, her whole mind and soul earnestly fixed on the new future which was opening before her, "what will they do? Will they let me see you again before your departure? When and how shall we meet next? Shall you receive my letters? Can you reply to them? What hour to-morrow may I come?"
"They have almost promised me that our marriage shall take place this evening or to-morrow morning."
"What! here in a prison," said Helene, shuddering involuntarily.
"Wherever it may be, Helene, it will bind us together for the rest of our lives."
"But suppose they do not keep their promise to you; suppose they make you set out before I have seen you?"
"Alas!" said Gaston, with a bursting heart, "that is possible, Helene, and it is that I dread."
"Oh, mon Dieu! do you think your departure is so near?"
"You know, Helene, that prisoners are not their own masters; they may be removed at any moment."
"Oh, let them come—let them come; the sooner you are free, the sooner we shall be reunited. It is not necessary that I should be your wife, in order to follow and join you. Do I not know my Gaston's honor, and from this day I look upon him as my husband before God. Oh, go proudly, Gaston, for while these thick and gloomy walls surround you I tremble for your life. Go, and in a week we shall be reunited; reunited, with no separation to threaten us, no one to act as a spy on us—reunited forever."
The door opened.
"Great Heaven, already!" said Helene.
"Madame," said the lieutenant, "the time has elapsed."
"Helene," said Gaston, seizing the young girl's hand, with a nervous trembling which he could not master.
"What is it?" cried she, watching him with terror. "Good Heaven! you are as pale as marble."
"It is nothing," said he, forcing himself to be calm; "indeed, it is nothing," and he kissed her hand.
"Till to-morrow, Gaston."
"To-morrow—yes."
The duke appeared at the door; Gaston ran to him.
"Monseigneur," said he, "do all in your power to obtain permission for her to become my wife; but if that be impossible, swear to me that she shall be your daughter."
The duke pressed Gaston's hand; he was so affected that he could not speak.
Helene approached. Gaston was silent, fearing she might overhear.
He held out his hand to Helene, who presented her forehead to him, while silent tears rolled down her cheeks; Gaston closed his eyes, that the sight of her tears might not call up his own.
At length they must part. They exchanged one last lingering glance, and the duke pressed Gaston's hand.
How strange was this sympathy between two men, one of whom had come so far for the sole purpose of killing the other.
The door closed, and Gaston sank down on a seat, utterly broken and exhausted.
In ten minutes the governor entered; he came to conduct Gaston back to his own room.
Gaston followed him silently, and whenasked if there was anything he wanted, he mournfully shook his head.
At night Mademoiselle de Launay signaled that she had something to communicate.
Gaston opened the window, and received a letter inclosing another.
The first was for himself.
He read:
"Dear Neighbor—The coverlid was not so contemptible as I supposed; it contained a paper on which was written the word already spoken by Herment—'Hope!' It also inclosed this letter for M. de Richelieu; send it to Dumesnil, who will pass it to the duke."Your servant,"De Launay."
"Dear Neighbor—The coverlid was not so contemptible as I supposed; it contained a paper on which was written the word already spoken by Herment—'Hope!' It also inclosed this letter for M. de Richelieu; send it to Dumesnil, who will pass it to the duke.
"Your servant,
"De Launay."
"Alas!" thought Gaston, "they will miss me when I am gone," and he called Dumesnil, to whom he passed the letter.
On leaving the Bastille, the duke took Helene home, promising to come and see her as usual in the evening; a promise which Helene would have estimated all the more highly if she had known that his highness had a bal masque at Monceaux.
On re-entering the Palais Royal the duke asked for Dubois, and was told he was in his study, working. The duke entered without allowing himself to be announced. Dubois was so busy that he did not hear the duke, who advanced and looked over his shoulder, to see what was occupying him so intently.
He was writing down names, with notes by the side of each.
"What are you doing there, abbe?" asked the regent.
"Ah! monseigneur, it is you; pardon; I did not hear you."
"I asked what you were doing?"
"Signing the burial tickets for our Breton friends."
"But their fate is not yet decided, and the sentence of the commission—"
"I know it," said Dubois.
"Is it given, then?"
"No, but I dictated it before they went."
"Do you know that your conduct is odious?"
"Truly, monseigneur, you are insupportable. Manage your family affairs, and leave state affairs to me."
"Family affairs!"
"Ah! as to those, I hope you are satisfied with me, or you would indeed be difficult to please. You recommend to me M. de Chanlay, and on your recommendation I make it a rose-water Bastille to him; sumptuous repasts, a charming governor. I let him pierce holes in your floors, and spoil your walls, all which will cost us a great deal to repair. Since his entrance, it is quite a fete. Dumesnil talks all day through his chimney, Mademoiselle de Launay fishes with a line through her window, Pompadour drinks champagne. There is nothing to be said to all this: these are your family affairs; but in Bretagne you have nothing to see, and I forbid you to look, monseigneur, unless you have a few more unknown daughters there, which is possible."
"Dubois! scoundrel!"
"Ah! you think when you have said 'Dubois,' and added 'scoundrel' to my name, you have done everything. Well, scoundrel as much as you please; meanwhile, but for the scoundrel you would have been assassinated."
"Well, what then?"
"What then! Hear the statesman! Well, then, I should be hanged, perhaps, which is a consideration; then Madame de Maintenon would be regent of France! What a joke! What then, indeed! To think that a philosophic prince should utter such naïvetés! Oh, Marcus Aurelius! was it not he who said, 'Populos esse demum felices si reges philosophi forent, aut philosophi reges?' Here is a sample."
Dubois still wrote on.
"Dubois! you do not know this young man."
"What young man?"
"The chevalier."
"Really! you shall present him to me when he is your son-in-law."
"That will be to-morrow, Dubois."
The abbe looked round in astonishment, and looking at the regent, with his little eyes as wide open as possible—
"Ah, monseigneur, are you mad?" he said.
"No, but he is an honorable man, and you know that they are rare."
"Honorable man! Ah, you have a strange idea of honor."
"Yes; I believe that we differ in our ideas of it."
"What has this honorable man done! Has he poisoned the dagger with which he meant to assassinate you? for then he would be more than an honorable man, he would be a saint. We have already St. Jacques Clement, St. Ravaillac; St. Gaston is wanting in the calendar. Quick, quick, monseigneur! you who will not ask the pope to give a cardinal's hat to your minister, ask him to canonize your assassin; and for the first time in your life you would be logical."
"Dubois, I tell you there are few capable of doing what this young man has done."
"Peste! that is lucky; if there were ten in France I should certainly resign."
"I do not speak of what he wished to do, but of what he has done."
"Well, what has he done? I should like to be edified."
"First, he kept his oath to D'Argenson."
"I doubt it not, he is faithful to his word; and but for me would have kept his word also with Pontcalec, Talhouet, etc."
"Yes, but one was more difficult than the other. He had sworn not to mention his sentence to any one, and he did not speak of it to his mistress."
"Nor to you?"
"He spoke of it to me, because I told him that I knew it. He forbade me to ask anything of the regent, desiring, he said, but one favor."
"And that one?"
"To marry Helene, in order to leave her a fortune and a name."
"Good; he wants to leave your daughter a fortune and a name; he is polite, at least."
"Do you forget that this is a secret from him?"
"Who knows?"
"Dubois, I do not know in what your hands were steeped the day you were born, but I know that you sully everything you touch."
"Except conspirators, monseigneur, for it seems to me that there, on the contrary, I purify. Look at those of Cellamare, how all that affair was cleared out; Dubois here, Dubois there, I hope the apothecary has properly purged France from Spain. Well, it shall be the same with Olivares as with Cellamare. There is now only Bretagne congested; a good dose, and all will be right."
"Dubois, you would joke with the Gospel."
"Pardieu! I began by that."
The regent rose.
"Come, monseigneur, I was wrong; I forgot you were fasting; let us hear the end of this story."
"The end is that I promised to ask this favor from the regent, and that the regent will grant it."
"The regent will commit a folly."
"No, he will only repair a fault."
"Ah, now you find you have a reparation to make to M. de Chanlay."
"Not to him, but to his brother."
"Still better. What have you done to his brother?"
"I took from him the woman he loved."
"Who?"——"Helene's mother."
"Well, that time you were wrong; for if you had let her alone we should not have had all this tiresome affair on our hands."
"But we have it, and must now get out of it as well as possible."
"Just what I am working at: and when is the marriage to take place?"
"To-morrow."
"In the chapel of the Palais Royal? You shall dress in the costume of a knight of the order; you shall extend both hands over your son-in-law's head—one more than he meant to have held over you—it will be very affecting."
"No, abbe, it shall not be thus; they shall be married in the Bastille, and I shall be in the chapel where they cannot see me."
"Well, monseigneur, I should like to be with you. I should like to see the ceremony; I believe these kind of things are very touching."
"No, you would be in the way, and your ugly face would betray my incognito."
"Your handsome face is still more easy to recognize, monseigneur," said Dubois, bowing; "there are portraits of Henry the Fourth and Louis the Fourteenth in the Bastille."
"You flatter me."
"Are you going away, monseigneur?"
"Yes, I have an appointment with De Launay."
"The governor of the Bastille?"
"Yes."
"Go, monseigneur, go."
"Shall I see you to-night at Morceaux?"
"Perhaps."
"Have you a disguise?"
"I have La Jonquière's dress."
"Oh! that is only fit for the Rue du Bac."
"Monseigneur forgets the Bastille, where it has had some success."
"Well, adieu, abbe."
"Adieu, monseigneur."
When Dubois was left alone he appeared to take some sudden resolution. He rang the bell, and a servant entered.
"M. de Launay is coming to the regent, watch him, and bring him here afterward."
The servant retired without a reply, and Dubois resumed his work.
Half an hour afterward the door opened, and the servant announced De Launay. Dubois gave him a note.
"Read that," said he; "I give you written instructions, that there may be no pretext for neglecting them."
"Ah, monseigneur," said De Launay, "you would ruin me.".
"How so?"
"To-morrow when it becomes known."
"Who will tell it? will you?"
"No, but monseigneur—"
"Will be enchanted; I answer for him."
"A governor of the Bastille!"
"Do you care to retain the title?"
"Certainly."
"Then do as I tell you."
"'Tis hard, however, to close one's eyes and ears."
"My dear De Launay, go and pay a visit to Dumesnil's chimney and Pompadour's ceiling."
"Is it possible? You tell me of things I was not at all aware of."
"A proof that I know better than you what goes on in the Bastille; and if I were to speak of some things you do know, you would be still more surprised."
"What could you tell me?"
"That a week ago one of the officers of the Bastille, and an important one too, received fifty thousand francs to let two women pass with—"
"Monsieur, they were—"
"I know who they were, what they went for, and what they did. They were Mademoiselle de Valois and Mademoiselle de Charolais; they went to see the Duc de Richelieu, and they eat bon-bons till midnight in the Tour du Coin, where they intend to pay another visit to-morrow, as they have already announced to M. de Richelieu."
De Launay turned pale.
"Well," continued Dubois, "do you think if I told these kind of things to the regent, who is, as you know, greedy of scandal, that a certain M. de Launay would be long governor of the Bastille? But I shall not say a word, for we must help each other."
"I am at your orders, monsieur."
"Then I shall find everything ready?"
"I promise you; but not a word to monseigneur."
"That is right, M. de Launay. Adieu!"
"Good," said Dubois, when he was gone; "and now, monseigneur, when you want to marry your daughter to-morrow there shall be only one thing missing—your son-in-law."
As Gaston passed on the letter to Dumesnil he heard steps in the corridor, and,hastily signing to the chevalier not to speak, he put out the light and began to undress. The governor entered. As it was not his custom to visit his prisoners at this hour, Gaston saw him with alarm, and he noticed that as M. de Launay placed his lamp on the table his hand trembled. The turnkeys withdrew, but the prisoner saw two soldiers at the door.
"Chevalier," said the governor, "you told me to treat you as a man—learn that you were condemned yesterday."
"And you have come to tell me," said Gaston, who always gained courage in the face of danger, "that the hour of my execution is arrived."
"No, monsieur, but it approaches."
"When will it be?"
"May I tell you the truth, chevalier?"
"I shall be most grateful to you."
"To-morrow, at break of day."
"Where?"
"In the yard of the Bastille."
"Thank you; I had hoped, however, that before I died I might have been the husband of the young girl who was here yesterday."
"Did M. d'Argenson promise you this?"
"No, but he promised to ask the king."
"The king may have refused."
"Does he never grant such favors?"
"'Tis rare, monsieur, but not without a precedent."
"I am a Christian," said Gaston; "I hope I shall be allowed a confessor."
"He is here."
"May I see him?"
"Directly; at present he is with your accomplice!"
"My accomplice! who?"
"La Jonquiere, who will be executed with you."
"And I had suspected him!" said Gaston.
"Chevalier, you are young to die," said the governor.
"Death does not count years: God bids it strike and it obeys."
"But if one can avert the blow, it is almost a crime not to do so."
"What do you mean? I do not understand."
"I told you that M. d'Argenson gave hopes."
"Enough, monsieur, I have nothing to confess."
At this moment the major knocked at the door and exchanged some words with the governor.
"Monsieur," said the latter, "Captain la Jonquiere wishes to see you once more."
"And you refuse it?" said Gaston, with a slight ironical smile.
"On the contrary, I grant it, in the hope that he will be more reasonable than you, and that he wishes to consult you as to making confessions."
"If that be his intention, tell him I refuse to come."
"I know nothing of it, monsieur; perhaps he only wishes once again to see his companion in misfortune."
"In that case, monsieur, I consent."
"Follow me, then."
They found the captain lying on the bed with his clothes in rags.
"I thought the almoner of the Bastille was with you?" said M. de Launay.
"He was, but I sent him away."
"Why so?"
"Because I do not like Jesuits; do you think, morbleu, that I cannot die properly without a priest?"
"To die properly, monsieur, is not to die bravely, but as a Christian."
"If I had wanted a sermon, I would have kept the priest, but I wanted M. de Chanlay."
"He is here, monsieur; I refuse nothing to those who have nothing to hope."
"Ah! chevalier, are you there?" said La Jonquiere, turning round; "you are welcome."
"Explain," said Gaston; "I see with sorrow that you refuse the consolations of religion."
"You also! if you say another word, I declare I will turn Huguenot."
"Pardon, captain, but I thought it my duty to advise you to do what I shall do myself."
"I bear you no ill-will, chevalier; if I were a minister, I would proclaim religious liberty. Now, M. de Launay," continued he, "you understand that as thechevalier and I are about to undertake a long tete-à-tete journey, we have some things to talk over together first."
"I will retire. Chevalier, you have an hour to remain here."
"Thank you, monsieur," said Gaston.
"Well?" said the captain, when they were alone.
"Well," said Gaston, "you were right."
"Yes; but I am exactly like the man who went round Jerusalem crying out 'Woe!' for seven days, and the eighth day a stone thrown from the walls struck him and killed him."
"Yes, I know that we are to die together."
"Which annoys you a little; does it not?"
"Very much, for I had reason to cling to life."
"Every one has."
"But I above all."
"Then I only know one way."
"Make revelations! never."
"No, but fly with me."
"How! fly with you?"
"Yes, I escape."
"But do you know that our execution is fixed for to-morrow?"
"Therefore I decamp to-night."
"Escape, do you say?"
"Certainly."
"How? where?"
"Open the window."
"Well."
"Shake the middle bar."
"Great God!"
"Does it resist?"
"No, it yields!"
"Very good, it has given me trouble enough, Heaven knows."
"It seems like a dream."
"Do you remember asking me if I did not make holes in anything, like all the others?"
"Yes, but you replied—"
"That I would tell you another time; was the answer a good one?"
"Excellent; but how to descend?"
"Help me."
"In what?"
"To search my paillasse."
"A ladder of cord!"
"Exactly."
"But how did you get it?"
"I received it with a file in a lark pie the day of my arrival."
"Certainly, you are decidedly a great man."
"I know it; besides that, I am a good man—for I might escape alone."
"And you have thought of me."
"I asked for you, saying that I wished to say adieu to you. I knew I should entice them to do some act of stupidity."
"Let us make haste, captain."
"On the contrary, let us act slowly and prudently; we have an hour before us."
"And the sentinels?"
"Bah! it is dark."
"But the moat, which is full of water?"
"It is frozen."
"But the wall?"
"When we are there, will be time enough to think about that."
"Must we fasten the ladder?"
"I want to try if it be solid; I have an affection for my spine, such as it is, and do not want to break my neck to save it from another fate."
"You are the first captain of the day, La Jonquiere."
"Bah! I have made plenty of others," said La Jonquiere, tying the last knot in the ladder.
"Is it finished?" asked Gaston.
"Yes."
"Shall I pass first?"
"As you like."
"I like it so."
"Go, then."
"Is it high?"
"Fifteen to eighteen feet."
"A trifle."
"Yes, for you who are young, but it is a different affair for me; be prudent, I beg."
"Do not be afraid."
Gaston went first, slowly and prudently, followed by La Jonquiere, who laughed in his sleeve, and grumbled every time he hurt his fingers, or when the wind shook the cords.
"A nice affair for the successor of Richelieu and Mazarin," he growled tohimself. "It is true I am not yet a cardinal; that saves me."
Gaston touched the water, or rather ice, of the fosse; a moment after, La Jonquiere was by his side.
"Now follow me," said the latter. On the other side of the moat a ladder awaited them.
"You have accomplices then?"
"Parbleu! do you think the lark paté came by itself?"
"Who says one cannot escape from the Bastille?" said Gaston joyously.
"My young friend," said Dubois, stopping on the third step, "take my advice; don't get in there again without me; you might not be as fortunate the second time as the first."
They continued to mount the wall, on the platform of which a sentinel walked, but instead of opposing them, he held his hand to La Jonquiere to assist him, and in three minutes they were on the platform, had drawn up the ladder, and placed it on the other side of the wall.
The descent was as safely managed, and they found themselves on another frozen moat.
"Now," said the captain, "we must take away the ladder, that we may not compromise the poor devil who helped us."
"We are then free?"
"Nearly so," said La Jonquiere.
Gaston, strengthened by this news, took up the ladder on his shoulder.
"Peste, chevalier! the late Hercules was nothing to you, I think."
"Bah!" said Gaston, "at this moment I could carry the Bastille itself."
They went on in silence to a lane in the Faubourg St. Antoine; the streets were deserted.
"Now, my dear chevalier," said La Jonquiere, "do me the favor to follow me to the corner of the Faubourg."
"I would follow you to—"
"Not so far, if you please; for safety's sake we will each go our own way."
"What carriage is that?"
"Mine."
"How! yours?"——"Yes."
"Peste! my dear captain: four horses! you travel like a prince!"
"Three horses; one is for you."
"How! you consent?"
"Pardieu! that is not all."
"What?"
"You have no money?"
"It was taken away."
"Here are fifty louis."
"But, captain—"
"Come, it is Spanish money; take it."
Gaston took the purse, while a postilion unharnessed a horse and led it to him.
"Now," said Dubois, "where are you going?"
"To Bretagne, to rejoin my companions."
"You are mad, my dear fellow; they are all condemned and may be executed in two or three days."
"You are right," said Gaston.
"Go to Flanders," said La Jonquiere, "it is a pleasant country; in fifteen or eighteen hours you can reach the frontier."
"Yes," said Gaston gloomily; "thank you, I know where I shall go."
"Well, good luck to you," said Dubois, getting into his carriage.
"The same to you," said Gaston.
They grasped each other's hands, and then each went his own way.