THE tumult of joy and surprise—the mutual explanations—the delight of De Blenau—the relief to Pauline—with the thousand little et-cetera of such a meeting, I must leave to the reader’s imagination, which will doubtless do much more justice to every circumstance than could the quill of a foolish bird such as I hold in my hand. Neither shall I dilate upon the surprise of Philip the woodman, when, on coming to inform De Blenau that he had lost the lady in the windings of the Bastille, he discovered that she had found her way to the object of her search without his sage guidance. One piece of information, however, he conveyed, which hurried their conference towards a conclusion. The Governor, he said, who had been absent, had returned, and was then engaged in visiting the western wards; and therefore he might be shortly expected in that part of the prison.

This unpalatable news reminded Pauline to deliver the letter from the Queen, which in the joy and agitation of their first meeting she had neglected to do. De Blenau looked it over with a hurried glance. “She commands me,” said he, “to confess all exactly as it occurred; but on one or two points I have already refused to answer, and if I do so now without producing the Queen’s warrant for my conduct, I shall be held a base coward, who betrays his trust for fear of the torture.”

“And do you hesitate, Claude?” demanded Pauline, rather reproachfully—“do you hesitate to take the only means which can save you? Do you think nothing of what I feel? You, Claude, may be proof against corporeal torture; but I can not endure much longer the mental agony I have suffered since you have been confined here, especially when I reflected that even while you were acting most nobly, I was suspecting you ungenerously. If you love me as you profess, dear Claude, you will take the means that the Queen directs to ensure your safety.”

“Well, dearest Pauline,” replied De Blenau, yielding to the all-persuasive eloquence of woman’s lips, “I will do as you wish, and endeavour to pursue such measures as will be both safe and honourable. But now conclude what you were telling me, of having lost yourself in the prison, and how you found your way hither.”

It may be necessary to explain, that while this conversation had taken place between De Blenau and Pauline in the inner apartment, Philip the woodman had remained in the outer chamber, keeping watch with his ear to the door which communicated with the staircase, in order to apprise them in time of the Governor’s approach. Pauline now had not time to conclude her little history of perilous escapes and dangers ere Philip entering from the outer chamber interrupted her: “Fly down the stairs, Mademoiselle,” cried he, “and wait at the bottom till I join you. The Governor is coming, for I hear other steps on the stairs as well as those of the sentinel at the top.”

Prisons are not places for great ceremonies, nor for all the mighty delicacies of general society; so Pauline suffered De Blenau to press his lips upon hers unreproved, and then fled down the back staircase with the speed of light; after which the Count shut and bolted the iron door, and passed into the outer chamber, while the Woodman bustled about in the inner one, arranging the Count’s apparel for the night, and appearing much more busy than he really was.

Thus every thing was as it should be when the Governor entered; but still there was an angry spot upon his brow, and with but a slight inclination to De Blenau, he looked through the door between the two chambers, saying, “Well, Mr. Woodman of Mantes, where is your daughter? She is not in your cell.”

“You have made sure of that in person, I suppose,” replied Philip, in his usual surly manner.

“Whether I have or not,” answered the Governor, “does but little signify. I ask where is your daughter? We must have no strangers wandering about the Bastille.”

“I know my child’s beauty as well as you do, Monsieur,” replied Philip, “and was too wise to leave her in my cell, where every one that chose would have liberty and time to affront her, while I was attending upon Monsieur le Comte here: so I made her come with me, and set her under the archway of the old tower to wait till I was done. Now, if Monsieur has done with me, I will go and conduct her to the outer gate, and never with my will shall she set her foot within these walls again.”

“I have no farther need of you to-night, Philip,” said De Blenau, as the Woodman stood at the door ready to depart; and then seeing that the Governor turned to follow him out, he added, “Monsieur le Gouverneur, will you sup with me this evening?”

Philip quitted the room, but the Governor was obliged to stay to reply. “With pleasure, Sir, with pleasure,” said he. “I will be back with you immediately, before my servant brings the plates; but I must first take the liberty of seeing this demoiselle out of the prison gates.” He then left De Blenau, and having bolted the door, followed the Woodman quickly down the steps. Philip, however, had gained so much upon him, that he had time to whisper to Pauline, whom he found waiting in the archway: “The Governor is coming, but do not be alarmed. Let him think that I bade you wait for me here till I had attended the Count.”

Pauline, however, could not help being alarmed. While the excitement of her enterprise had continued, it afforded a false sort of courage, which carried her through; but now that her object was gained, all her native timidity returned, and she thought of encountering the Governor again with fear and trembling. Nor had she much time to recall her spirits before he himself joined them.

“Well, my fair demoiselle,” he cried, “I think if I had known that you were waiting here all alone in the dark, I should have paid you a visit;” and he raised the lamp close to Pauline’s face, which was as pale as death. “Why, you look as terrified,” proceeded the Governor, “as if you had been committing murder. Well, I will light you out, and when you come to-morrow, you will not be so frightened. At what hour do you come, eh?”

“I desire that you would not come at all,” said Philip aloud, as he followed the Governor, who was escorting Pauline along with an air of gallantry and badinage which did not at all set off his thin demure features to advantage, especially in the unbecoming light of the lamp that flickered upon them but at intervals, tipping all the acute angles of his countenance with not the most agreeable hue. “I desire that you would not come at all: you have been here once too often already. Let your brother Charles come the next time.”

The Governor darted a glance at Philip, which certainly evinced that his face could take on, when it liked, an expression of hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness; and in a minute or two after, by some means, the lamp went out in his hands. “Here, Philip,” cried he, “take the lamp, and get a light.”

“Your pardon, Sir,” answered the sturdy Woodman; “not till I have seen my daughter beyond the gates.”

“Philip Grissolles, or Philip the Woodman, or whatever you call yourself,” cried the Governor, “are you mad? Do you know what you are about? Go and fetch me a light instantly, or refuse me at your peril.”

“I do refuse then,” replied the Woodman, who had learned by conversation with the Porter and turnkeys, how much power the Governor had placed in his hands by permitting him to attend upon the Count de Blenau; “I am your prisoner, Sir,” he continued, “but not your servant.”

“I have allowed you to act as such in the prison,” said the Governor, “and there are no servants here but mine.”

“In suffering me to attend upon the Count de Blenau,” rejoined Philip boldly, “you have outstepped your duty, and broken the express order of the Cardinal. So much have I learned since I came here—therefore allow my daughter to depart quietly, Sir. We shall find a light in the Porter’s room.”

“By Heavens! I have a mind to detain the girl all night, for your insolence,” cried the Governor, stamping with rage.

“Oh, for God’s sake do not!” exclaimed Pauline, clasping her hands; but Philip came close up to him,—“You dare not,” said he, in a low voice; “for your head, you dare not.” And then added aloud to Pauline, “Come along, my child; Monsieur le Gouverneur will let you out.”

During this altercation they had continued to proceed; and the Governor, knowing that his violation of the Cardinal’s commands with regard to the strict confinement of De Blenau, might bring his head to the block if sifted thoroughly, thought it best to abstain from irritating a person who not only possessed, but knew that he possessed, so much power. Not that he would not willingly have silenced the Woodman by some of those infallible means which were much resorted to in that day; but that he knew Chavigni was not easily satisfied on such points; and thus being in a situation which is popularly expressed by “the horns of a dilemma,” like a good Christian as he was, he chose rather to risk discovery than commit a murder which would undoubtedly be found out. Under these circumstances, he permitted Philip and Pauline to proceed to the gates, and ordered the Porter to give the young lady egress, taking care, however, to follow them all the way till they arrived at the last gate opening upon the drawbridge, which, at the time they arrived, had not been yet raised for the evening.

Pauline’s heart beat with glad impatience as the Janitor put his key into the lock, whose bolt grating harshly, as it was withdrawn, produced to her ears most excellent music.

It so unfortunately happened, however, that at the moment the gate swung heavily back upon its hinges, Charles, the Woodman’s son, presented himself for admission; and having before had free access to his father, was proceeding calmly through the open door, without taking any notice of Mademoiselle de Beaumont, whom he did not recognize in her disguise.

“What!” exclaimed the Governor, whose Bastille habits rendered him quick to the slightest suspicion; “do you not speak to your sister?”

“Sister!” said the boy, confounded; “I have no sister!”

Pauline saw that in another moment all would be lost; and darting past the Governor, she was through the gate, and over the drawbridge in a moment.

“Nom de Dieu!” cried the Governor: “Follow her, Letrames!—quick, quick!”

The Turnkey was on Pauline’s footsteps in a minute; but she had gained so much in the first instance, that she would certainly have escaped with ease, if an envious stone had not obstructed her path at the bottom of the glacis, and striking her foot, occasioned her to fall. Pauline uttered a scream of both pain and fear; and two steps would have brought the Turnkey to the spot where she lay, when suddenly a small, strange-shaped figure in white, skipped over her prostrate form, and interposed between her and her pursuer.

“Ventre Saint Gris!” cried the redoubtable Jacques Chatpilleur, cuisinier aubergiste, who thus came to her assistance—“You shall not touch her!” and drawing the long rapier that hung beside his carving-knife, he made a pass so near the breast of the Turnkey, that the official started back full ten paces, not knowing, in the dim light of the hour, what hobgoblin shape thus crossed his purpose. “Maraud!” continued the aubergiste, “Who are you that dare to injure this demoiselle? under the very walls of the Bastille, too, contrary to the peace and quiet of His Majesty’s true subjects! Get thee gone! or I will spit thee like a chapon de maine, or rather skewer thee like an ortolan under the wings.”

This professional allusion, together with a moment’s reflection, enabled Letrames, the turnkey, to call to mind the ancien vivandier; and showering upon him a thousand harsh epithets for his interference, he called upon him to stand aside, and let him secure his prisoner; still, however, standing aloof from the point of the weapon,—for Jacques Chatpilleur, while vivandier to the army, had shown that he could gather laurels with his sword, as well as with his knife; and had as often, to use Sancho’s expression, given his enemies a bellyfull of dry blows, as he had filled his friends with more dainty fare; with this difference, however, that the drubbings he bestowed gratis.

In the present instance, he either did not, or would not, know the Turnkey; and continued vociferating to him to hold off, and tell who he was, with such reiteration, that for some time the other had no opportunity of replying. At length, however, he roared, rather than said, “Jacques Diable! you know me well enough; I am Letrames, GÉolier au chÂteau.”

The aubergiste looked over his shoulder, and seeing that Pauline was no longer visible, he very quietly put up his rapier, saying, “Mais mon Dieu! mon ami, why did you not tell me that before? Je vous en demande mille pardons;” and seizing the Turnkey in his arms, he embraced him, making a thousand excuses for having mistaken him, and hugging him with a sort of malicious affection, which quite put a stop to his pursuit of Pauline.

The only benediction that the gaoler thought proper to bestow on the little aubergiste, was a thousand curses, struggling all the time to free himself from the serpent folds of Chatpilleur’s embrace. But it was not till the aubergiste had completely satisfied himself, that he suffered Letrames to escape, and then very composedly offered to assist him in the pursuit, which he well knew would now be ineffectual.

The darkness of the night had prevented this scene from being visible from the gates of the Bastille, and Letrames, on his return to the prison, was too wise to complain of the conduct of our friend Chatpilleur; a vivandier at the gates of the Bastille being much too convenient an acquaintance to be quarrelled with upon trifles.

During his absence, the wrath of the Governor turned upon Philip the woodman. “What is the meaning of this? Villain!” exclaimed he, “this is none of your daughter! Fouchard! La Heuterie!” he called aloud to some of his satellites—“quick! bring me a set of irons! we shall soon hear who this is, Monsieur Philip Grissoles!”

“You will never hear any thing from me more than you know already,” replied Philip; “so put what irons on me you like. But you had better beware, Sir Governor; those that meddle with pitch will stick their fingers. You do not know what you may bring upon your head.”

“Silence, fool!” cried the Governor, in a voice that made the archway ring; “you know not what you have brought upon your own head.—Fouchard! La Heuterie! I say, why are you so long? Oh, here you come at last. Now secure that fellow, and down with him to one of the black dungeons!—Porter, turn that young viper out,” he continued, pointing to Charles, who stood trembling and weeping by his father’s side; “Turn him out, I say!—we will have no more of these traitors than we have occasion for.”

At the word the dark dungeon, Philip’s courage had almost failed him, and it was not without an effort that he kept his sturdy limbs from betraying his emotion, while the gaolers began to place the irons on his wrists and ancles: but when he heard the order to drive forth his son, he made a strong effort and caught the boy in his arms: “God bless you, Charles! God bless you, my boy! and fear not for me,” he exclaimed, “while there is a Power above.”

It was a momentary solace to embrace his child, but the Porter soon tore the boy from his arms, and pushing him through the gate closed it after him, rejoicing that he should no more have to turn the key for any of the Woodman’s family. “Now,” said he, “now we shall have no more trouble; I hate to see all our good old rules and regulations broken through. I dare say if his Eminence the Cardinal—God protect him!—were to follow this Monsieur Chavigni’s advice, we should have every thing out of order; and all the good store of chains and irons here in the lodge would get rusty for want of use.”

“Peace, peace!” cried the Governor: “La Heuterie, take that fellow down, as I told you. He shall have the question to-morrow, and we shall see if he finds that so easy to bear. Away with him, quick!—A fool I was to be so deceived!—I suspected something when she stammered so about her father’s name.” So saying, he turned to hear the report of Letrames, who at that moment returned from his unsuccessful pursuit of Pauline.

In the mean while, the gaolers led Philip, who moved with difficulty in his heavy irons, across the first and second court, and opening a low door in the western tower displayed to his sight a flight of steps leading down to the lower dungeons. At this spot La Heuterie, who seemed superior in rank to his fellow-turnkey, lighted a torch that he had brought with him at his companion’s lantern, and descending to the bottom of the steps, held it up on high to let Philip see his way down. The Woodman shuddered as he gazed at the deep gloomy chasm which presented itself but half seen by the glare of the torch, the light of which glancing upon the wall in different places, showed its green damp and ropy slime, without offering any definite limit to the dark and fearful vacuity. But he had no time to make any particular remark, for the second gaoler, who stood at his side, rudely forced him on; and descending the slippy stone steps, he found himself in a large long vault, paved with round stones, and filled with heavy subterranean air, which at first made the torch burn dim, and took away the Woodman’s breath. As the light, however, spread slowly through the thick darkness, he could perceive three doors on either hand, which he conceived to give entrance to some of those under-ground dungeons, whose intrinsic horror, as well as the fearful uses to which they were often applied, had given a terrific fame to the name of the Bastille, and rendered it more dreaded than any other prison in France.

During this time they had paused a moment, moving the torch slowly about, as if afraid that it would be extinguished by the damp, but when the flame began to rise again, La Heuterie desired his companion to bring the prisoner to number six, and proceeding to the extremity of the vault, they opened the farthest door on the left, which led into a low damp cell, cold, narrow, and unfurnished, the very abode of horror and despair. Into this they pushed the unfortunate Woodman, following themselves, to see, as they said, if there was any straw.

“Have you brought some oil with you?” demanded La Heuterie, examining a rusty iron lamp that hung against the wall: “This is quite out.”

“No, indeed,” replied Fouchard, “and we cannot get any to-night: but he does not want it till day. It is time for him to go to sleep.”

“No, no,” rejoined the other, who seemed at least to have some human feeling; “do not leave the poor devil without light. Give him your lantern, man; you can fetch it to-morrow, when you come round to trim the lamps.”

The man grumbled, but did as La Heuterie bade him; and having fastened the lantern on the hook where the lamp hung, they went away, leaving Philip to meditate over his fate in solitude.

“I have brought it on myself at last,” thought the Woodman, as looking round him he found all the horrors he had dreamed of the Bastille more than realized; and his spirit sank within him. Cut off from all communication with any human being, he had now no means of making his situation known; and the horrible idea of the torture shook all his resolution and unmanned his heart.

It would hardly be fair to pursue the course of his reflections any farther; for if, when he remembered his happy cottage in the wood of Mantes, and his wife, and his little ones, a momentary thought of disclosing all he knew crossed the Woodman’s mind, the next instant, the ruin of the Queen, the death of the good Count de Blenau, and a train of endless ills and horrors to those who confided in him, flashed across his imagination, and nerved his heart to better things. He called to mind every generous principle of his nature; and though but a humble peasant, he struggled nobly against the dishonouring power of fear.

Sleep, however, was out of the question; and he sat mournfully on the straw that had been placed for his bed, watching the light in the lantern, as inch by inch it burned away, till at last it gleamed for a moment in the socket—sank—rose again with a bright flash, and then became totally extinguished. He now remained in utter darkness, and a thousand vague and horrible fancies crowded upon his imagination while he sat there, calculating how near it was to day, when he fancied that even the momentary presence of the gaoler would prove some relief to the blank solitude of his situation. Hour after hour, however, passed away, and no glimpse of light told him it was morning. At length the door opened and the gaoler appeared, bringing with him a fresh lighted lamp, thus offering a frightful confirmation of Philip’s fears that the beams of day never penetrated to the place of his confinement.

The gaoler took down the lantern, and having fastened the lamp in its place, gave to the unfortunate Woodman a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water. “Come!” exclaimed Fouchard, in a tone which spoke no great pleasure in the task; “get up; I am to take off your irons for you: and truly, there is no great use of them, for if you were the Devil himself, you could not get out here.”

“I suppose so,” answered Philip. “But I trust that it will not be long before I am released altogether.”

“Why, I should guess that it would not,” answered the gaoler, in somewhat of a sarcastic tone, still continuing to unlock the irons; “People do not in general stay here very long.”

“How so?” demanded Philip anxiously, misdoubting the tone in which the other spoke.

“Why,” replied he, “you must know there are three ways, by one of which prisoners are generally released, as you say, altogether; and one way is as common as another, so far as my experience goes. Sometimes they die under the torture; at other times they are turned out to have their head struck off; or else they die of the damp: which last we call being Home sick.” And with this very consolatory speech he bundled up the irons under his arm, and quitted the cell, taking care to fasten the door behind him.