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"Messieurs," he said, "have the goodness to accompany me to the Salle de Justice. The commissary attends you to hand to you your permission de sortie. You will depart to-morrow, if it so pleases you."
Rising, they followed him through all the passages and courts as before, and arrived at the great hall. Here they observed that the judges were not again present, but in their place, and seated at the scarlet-draped table of the judges' registrar was the commissary, a little, old, wizened man, who bowed to them as they entered.
"Be seated, I beg," he said, motioning them to two chairs placed in front of him-two fauteuils very different in appearance and comfort from the stools that had previously been accorded them; and when they had done so, he instantly read from two papers before him:
"Réné Xavier Ru de Chevagny, Marquis de Chevagny," he began; "his Majesty, King Louis XV, graciously accords you this his permission to depart out of this fortress, the Bastille, from this present moment. This permission I now hand to you as a certificate of his Majesty's gracious goodness." Here he held the paper out over the table to the old man, who took it from him without uttering one word. Then the commissary continued: "And in consideration of your having been unable to attend to your own interests, properties, and estates of late, his Majesty ordains that you may draw upon the captain of this his fortress, Monsieur Jourdan de Launey, for a sum not exceeding fifty Louis d'ors, for your present expenses, to be by you recouped later on."
"I-I want nothing," De Chevagny began, when, as he did so, his eye fell upon Bluet standing near and behind the King's Lieutenant, and remembering all the fellow's kindness to him-kindness which he had never been under any obligation to show he ceased what he was saying; while the commissary continued:
"From this moment you are at liberty to depart. Monsieur le Marquis you will consult your own pleasure as to when you do so."
Then turning to Bertie and addressing him, he again read out the rigmarole about "his Majesty's gracious goodness," and handed to him his certificate of freedom. And also he informed him that he, too, could draw on De Launey for fifty Louis d'ors, to be recorded later on.
"If, monsieur," Bertie exclaimed, however, at this, "I draw them, I know not how they are ever to be refunded. I was an officer in the French King's army when I was brought here. I can scarcely suppose I am one now. When I quit this prison I am as like as not to be a beggar in the streets. This incarceration has stolen my life from me for two years; now I am free, its effect will be to deprive me of the means whereby to live in the future."
"Monsieur le Capitaine, I think not. I am authorized to tell you that a commission in his Majesty's service will still be provided for you, in consequence of your residence here being due to a slight mistake."
"So be it," said Bertie; "I rejoice to hear that so much justice will be done to me." Yet, as he spoke, he took a vow that never more would he serve the French King, never more draw sword for a country in which such errors could happen as that which had imprisoned him for those two years.
"Now," said the commissary, "you must please to sign these papers, and to swear upon your honours that you will neither reveal, when outside this fortress, any of the situations of the various chambers, apartments, towers, halls, or courts of which you have obtained any knowledge, nor the names of any other persons here with which you have become acquainted in any way. Also you must, upon your honours, state that you carry no messages from anyone within this fortress to anyone whatsoever outside of it, either written or verbal. And when you do go forth at the time it shall please you, you will also sign another paper stating that you have been deprived of nothing, neither money, clothes, jewellery, nor trinkets of which you were in possession when you arrived."
De Chevagny shrugged his shoulders as he answered:
"I may sign with safety. I have no recollection of anything I had about me when I came here in the year 1704. I know not what I had. And what matters it? What matters it?"
"As for me," said Elphinston, "I had but a few gold pieces in my purse when I came here, and they have been exhausted long ago in payment for my bed. There can be nothing left; and if there is, I want it not."
That night, however, both he and De Chevagny decided to draw each upon De Launey for ten Louis d'ors, with which to reward the faithful Bluet, and also-for such was the custom even in this hateful place-to give a treat to the turnkeys. So, ere they slept for the last time in their miserable chamber, these men were called in, and, bringing with them various sorts of wine, chocolate, pasties, and ratafias, were rewarded also with pieces of money, while they drank to the health of those whom they termed the "parting guests."
One other had, however, to be taken a sad farewell of-one whom there was no likelihood of their ever meeting again in this world-the unhappy Genevese, Falmy. At daybreak Bertie was at the window looking for him, and a few moments later he appeared at his; and the tears streamed down the former's eyes so as almost to blind him as for the last time he sent his message across to the opposite tower. "Farewell! I leave with De Chevagny," he signalled. "God ever bless you, and may He at last release you! Is there no message for anyone outside?" For, in spite of the promise he had given to take none from any prisoner, he felt absolved from it when he thought of the bitter agony of those incarcerated still. Indeed, such was the feeling of all who went forth from that living death.
But Falmy shook his head sadly; then, listlessly, as though hopeless and heartbroken, he signalled back, "None; I have no friends. If I ever had any, they are dead or have forgotten me. Farewell!" and, with a look upon his face that Bertie never forgot, he left the window.
Down through the corridors and passages they passed, away through the corps de garde, with, for the last time, their laced hats held before their faces, until they reached the wicket and so to the great gates which opened to admit their exit. And a moment later, as the great clock struck nine above their heads, they stood outside the prison walls.[Note D] They were free!
CHAPTER XXX
THE MARQUIS GOES HOME
The turnkey had provided a fiacre for them, and into this they stepped from the outside of the great gate, while Bluet; looking as sad as though he were parting for ever from his dearest friends, asked where the man should be instructed to drive them to? Strange to say, neither had given any thought to this matter, though, had Bertie been alone, no consideration would have been necessary on the subject. His mother's house would have been his destination; for, although often and often in his misery he had mused on whether she was still alive, and on whether she would ever fold him in her arms again, nothing would have kept him from going straight to Passy and at once resolving his doubts.
But now, with De Chevagny by his side-a poor old man cast back into an unknown world after nearly half a century's exclusion from it-he could not leave him; he must be his first consideration.
"Dear friend," he said, while still Bluet stood by the coach door, "have you thought of where we shall proceed to? Will you go to your own home first, or come to mine-if-if-God! if I have any left there. At least we will not part-or not now, not now."
The poor, old marquis wrapped the dark blue cloak they had provided him with around him as the other spoke, for the December morning, although bright and sunny, was cold and crisp, then he said, "Home! to my home? What home have I?"
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Bluet, consoling to the last, "sans doute, a beautiful home. Monsieur must well remember-even I, a prison watch-dog, have heard of it-the Hôtel de Chevagny. Monsieur will doubtless go there. And, parbleu! when I have a day's release from my labours, I shall make a little visit to the marquis. He will be glad to see his old friend and servant, Bluet N'est ce pas?"
"Yes," the marquis whispered, dazed, as it seemed to the others, by his freedom-"yes, I shall always be glad to see you, Bluet. Let us go-let us go," and he held out his hand to the turnkey, as did Bertie.
"Hôtel de Chevagny," said Bluet to the driver; "you know it without doubt. Away with you to the house of the noble marquis!"
"De Chevagny!" said the man from his box-"De Chevagny! No, I know it not. What is the quarter?"
"St. Germain, naturally. Monsieur," looking in again at the window, "the name of the street-of the street, monsieur?" he repeated, seeing that the marquis appeared to scarcely understand him. But a moment later he muttered:
"The Rue Charles Martel. That is it."
"Bon!" said the coachman, he having caught the words-"bon! Rue Charles Martel," and as once more Bluet exchanged farewells with them, he lashed his horse and drove off, while De Chevagny cast one last look on the Bastille and shuddered.
"Forty-five years," he murmured, "forty-five years. A young man when I entered there, an old man now-worn out and near his end."
"Nay, nay," said Bertie, "do not think so. Remember, you may find many alive who are still dear to you. Let us pray so at least."
But the marquis, burying his head in the collar of his cloak, spoke no more, though Bertie, regarding him from time to time, saw that he was gazing out and observing the places they passed by; and as they traversed the Pont Neuf, he observed a brighter look in his face than he had hitherto seen. "This, at least, has not changed," he muttered. "It is the same as when I was young-as when I passed over it to go to the Bastille. Forty-five years ago! – forty-five years ago!"
Presently-for it was no great distance from the Quartier St. Antoine to that of St. Germain-the hackney coach arrived at the end of the Rue Charles Martel; a long, sad-looking street, having high walls all along it into which were set great wooden gates, and behind which were large courtyards belonging to the various mansions or hotels of the nobility. Yet, as they entered this street and observed a large, modern, and very gaunt-looking house, De Chevagny seemed more bewildered than ever, and raised his finger to his forehead as though confused.
"I-I-do not understand," he said. "Has the man mistaken the way? Bellancourt's house stood here-years ago-when I was a lad. I have played in the gardens often-oh, so often, with his children! It was an old, old house, built in the days of Henri of Navarre. Where is it? That is not it."
"This is a new building," replied Bertie; "is it not possible the present owner may have removed the old one to make way for this?"
"Yes, yes," De Chevagny whispered-"yes, it is forty-five years ago. I should have remembered. Forty-five years ago. And sixty since I played under the cedars in the garden. My God!"
The hackney carriage rolled along slowly, for in this old-fashioned street the road, like so many in Paris in those days, was far from good, and a slight thaw had now set in which rendered it particularly heavy. Then, looking out, the marquis pointed to an antique mansion the roofs of which could be seen behind the walls.
"See," he said excitedly, "see, it is the house of De Montpouillan, the man whom the King delighted to honour! I was at a ball there three nights before I was taken, and he-Louis, the Grand Monarque-was there too. He danced in the ballet9 with the daughter of St. Hillaire, a blonde whose hair shone like the gold of a new Louis d'or. Mon Dieu! observe-there is a hatchment over the house. Someone is dead."
Again Bertie tried to soothe him by reminding him that, whomsoever it might be, he could scarcely have known them after his long and terrible absence; yet this consolation, unhappy as it was, only served to remind him of his own sad fate and to set him once more murmuring, "Forty-five years!"
But a moment afterwards he gave a gasp-a cry, indeed-and exclaimed:
"My house! my house! See, see, it is there!" and called feebly to the driver to stop.
Above the walls Bertie could perceive the red tiles of a long, low hotel; could observe also that in many places some of those tiles had fallen away and left great gaps yawning; and also that the whole gave signs of being in a ruinous condition. The huge, double wooden gates hung loosely on their hinges, while one or two beams in them bulged inward from rottenness and the lock, once large and handsome and a triumph of the smith's art, was rusted and almost fallen from its wooden socket.
"Alas! alas!" thought Elphinston to himself, "it is not here that he will find his wife or child. He must look farther for them-perhaps in heaven! – who knows? Poor De Chevagny-poor, unhappy man!"
There hung a great iron bell-handle on the side of the vast door, and the marquis, grasping it, rang a peal that could be heard echoing in the house itself across the courtyard-a peal that met with no response. Then they waited for a minute or two, the marquis leaning on Bertie's arm and gazing up wistfully into his face, as though seeking to read therein what his thoughts might be, and the driver staring over the wall at the unshuttered and uncurtained windows.
"Mon Dieu!" the man muttered to himself so that they could not hear him, "after having dwelt in the palais des grenouilles10 so long, it is not strange if the master is no more expected," and he cracked his whip vigorously as though hoping, perhaps, to thereby attract some attention from within.
Still the old man looked up sadly at his companion's face, and muttered, "My home, my home!" so ruefully that the other had to turn away from him so that he should not see his eyes; and then Bertie, seizing the bell handle, rang a strong, lusty peal upon it.
"If there is anyone here," he said, "that should arouse them. The bell has a tongue that might wake the dead!"
He could have bitten his own tongue out a moment later, for at his words, especially the last one, De Chevagny started, and then muttered, "The dead-the dead. Ah! it is the dead who never come back to us. They are gone. All are gone! When shall we meet again? Never, never, never!"
As though in answer to that question which his own weary heart had answered for itself, a door was heard to open in the front of the house-it creaked wofully on its hinges-and then steps were also heard upon the stones of the courtyard, the steps of someone in sabots, and next the key was turned in the rusty lock and one half of the great gate pulled back; following upon which, a woman of about forty years of age appeared at the doorway, and, after regarding the fiacre and the young man with the old one now leaning so heavily on his arm, asked them what they desired.
"To come into my own house," said the latter, looking at her, though he could see at once that she had been born since he last stood upon that spot. "I am the Marquis de Chevagny."
She was not an uncomely-looking woman, neither did she appear hard nor severe; still she answered, with a look of suspicion in her face:
"There is no Marquis de Chevagny. The title exists no longer."
"Yet," said the old man feebly, "I am he. This is my house. Woman, I have but left the Bastille an hour ago. I have been a prisoner there for forty-five years."
She took a step backward, as though to regard him more particularly, while her brow wrinkled a little and her colour came and went, as she exclaimed, "My God, it is not possible!"
"It is true," he said. "I pray you let me enter. I am very old and feeble-older than even I should be by my years-and-and this is my house. Do not refuse me!"
"Enter," the woman said, pulling wider open the door. "And this-monsieur," glancing at Bertie, "who is he?"
"I also have been a prisoner in the Bastille, though for only a short space of time in comparison with his. I beseech you," he said, sinking his voice to a whisper, "answer him very gently-especially when he asks you of-of his family."
"I understand," the woman said in return as she walked by their side across the courtyard, in which one or two fowls were strutting about-"I understand. Is he truly the marquis?"
"He is, indeed."
"God help him!" and as she spoke, they reached the door of the house.
They entered a great hall with a tiled floor and, above it at the back, a window of stained glass, some panes of which were broken-a hall in which there was no furniture except a plain oaken bench, that looked as though it had been used to chop wood upon; and on to this the Marquis de Chevagny sank, exhausted already, while Bertie, saddened at such a home-coming as this, stood by to cheer and comfort him if possible.
"This is not as I left it," the old man said as his glance roved round the spacious but empty hall. "Has there been no one to guard it?" Then, as though such trifles were unworthy of consideration, he asked eagerly, while a strange light shone from his eyes: "I had a wife, a child, when they took me from here. Are they-they-still alive?"
"Is it possible monsieur does not know?"
"Know! What should I know? Woman, I tell you I have been dead to the world for forty-five years-buried alive in a place to which no news ever comes. Where," he continued, "where are my wife and child?"
"Alas! monsieur," she said, seeming while she spoke as though endeavouring to avoid answering him, "I have heard of you from my father; he was garde chasse at the Château de Chevagny many years ago."
"Lenoir! Was he your father?"
"Yes, monsieur, but he has been dead these twenty years; and then-"
"My wife and child!" he interrupted-"my wife and child! Are they dead, too?"
"Alas! monsieur, I never saw Madame la Marquise. She-she-died the year I was born."
De Chevagny straightened himself upon the bench-as he did so there came to Bertie's recollection how his own father had so straightened himself as he died in his arms a few years before, and he wondered why he recalled that incident at this moment-then the marquis said:
"The year you were born? How old are you?"
"Forty-one, monsieur."
"Forty-one!" he whispered, "forty-one! So! she lived four years. Four years. And I-I-have been hoping, praying-O God! how I have prayed! – to see her again-to see her again, while for forty-one years she has been lying in her grave-in her grave!"
He paused awhile, perhaps because he heard the sobs of Bertie and the woman mingling with his own; then he said:
"And the little child-my dear, dear little babe! Is-is she dead, too?"
"Non, monsieur-at least I think not. She-"
"Thank God!"
"She married, very young, the Vicomte de Brunet," the woman answered through her tears, "and went with him to Guadeloupe; and sometimes, at intervals, she writes to her friends in Paris, and they send me news of her. Also, she has once written to me."
"And she is well? Has she children of her own, perhaps?"
"No, monsieur. Her marriage has not been so blessed by the bon Dieu!"
He sat thinking awhile, meditating deeply ere he spoke again; then he said:
"But this house and the château-they were good properties; we have drawn large sums from them for generations. Who takes the rents, the produce, now-to whom do they belong?"
"To the state, I have heard, monsieur; to the King; though, it is said, in trust only. Yet, I know not. I cannot say. But I suppose so. Twice annually a monsieur comes from the minister of the King to visit us, and twice, also, I hear, one visits the château. If all has been saved for you, monsieur, during your long absence, you should be very rich."
"Rich," he repeated-"rich! very rich! Yes, yes, very rich." Then, turning on the woman suddenly, almost fiercely for him, he asked:
"Where-where, do you know-did my wife die? Where did my little child live until she married? If the state, the King, took possession of my property, they would not let them stay here nor at the château."
"Madame la Marquise went back to stay with her father after monsieur had gone away. Mademoiselle de Chevagny lived with him also until she married." Then, observing that the old man looked even more feeble and drawn than she had at first noticed, she said: "But, monsieur, do not stay here in this cold hall. Come into the saloon, I beg of you. There is no fire, but I can soon make one. Come, monsieur, come."
Slowly leaning on Bertie's arm, he rose at her behest-and now the latter perceived that he weighed more heavily on him than before-and, all together, they went into a fair-sized salon, or morning-room, to the left of the corridor; while the woman, preceding them, made haste to open the window shutters and to let a flood of light from the wintry sun pour into the room.
It seemed to have been left much as it must have been in those long-past years, when so dreadful a doom had fallen upon that unhappy family-perhaps had scarcely undergone any alteration since those days. Upon the walls there hung several pictures: one, of a man in half armour, bearing a strong resemblance to him who now tottered on Bertie's arm; another, of an elderly woman, of a long anterior date; a third, of a young man in all the bravery of the rich apparel of Louis XIV's date, a young man with bright blue eyes and a joyous smile-De Chevagny himself. Also, there were many chairs, none very comfortable, since, fifty years before this time, comfortable chairs were almost unknown articles; a table or so and a tabouret; also a woman's worktable in a corner by the fireplace with, above it, a painting of a fair young girl with a soft, gentle expression, done in what was, at the period in which it was painted, quite a new style-the style of Antoine Watteau-and much embellished with a rural landscape behind the portrait.
With a gasp, a cry of recognition, De Chevagny regarded this portrait in the light of the thin December sun, and then, leaning now so heavily on Bertie's arm as to be almost entirely held up and supported by him, he exclaimed:
"See! see! She has come back to me; we have met again! Again, Jeanne, my love, my wife, my dear! O Jeanne, Jeanne, we shall be so happy now!"
The woman and Bertie regarded each other significantly, though neither could speak from emotion, while De Chevagny addressed the latter, saying:
"See! there is the table where nightly she sits and works, making little things for the child that is to come-the babe that shall make us so happy. Here," and he put his finger on a gilt nail by the chimney-piece, "where she hangs her workbasket at night; here," and he pointed to a low stool, "where I sit by her side and tell her all I have done at the court."
He broke off, and appeared to be listening.
"Hark!" he said, "hark! It is striking eleven-we are going to bed-the great cloche is ringing; there is a noise in the courtyard. God!" he screamed, "it is full of torches; the exempts are there; they have come to seize me-to drag me to the Bastille-to part us! Hide! oh, hide me!"
"Courage, courage, dear friend," said Bertie, soothingly, as he held him in his arms, and noticed once again how heavy and inert his poor form was-"courage, courage! They will never come for you again. You are free forever now. Dispel these illusions. Be brave."
"Free," he repeated, "free!" and his wandering blue eyes sought Bertie's once more, while in them there was again that wistful look which so wrung his heart. "Free! yes, I am free!" and as he spoke he released himself from Elphinston's grasp and flung himself upon his knees before his wife's picture.
"My darling," he murmured, gazing up at it, "ma mignonne, we shall never part more. I am free! free! free! And so happy! oh, so happy!" and he clasped his hands together and bent over the low chair before the picture. And once again he looked up and murmured, "So-so happy now!"
When at last they ventured to speak to him, and, getting no answer, to raise his head, they saw upon his face so sweet and placid a smile that, remembering all, Bertie would not have wished to call him back to the world in which he had suffered so much.
