THE heavy carriage which conveyed Pauline de Beaumont towards Paris rolled on with no great rapidity, and the time, to her anxious mind, seemed lengthened to an inconceivable degree. Towards night, every little town they entered she conceived to be the capital, and was not undeceived till Mademoiselle de Hauteford observed, that they had set out so late she was afraid they would be obliged to pass the night at Ecouen.

In her companion Pauline found but little to console or soothe her under the anxiety and fear which the dangerous enterprise she had undertaken naturally produced. Mademoiselle de Hauteford had little either of warmth of heart or gentleness of disposition; and such were the only qualities which could have assimilated with Pauline’s feelings at that time.

In combating the passionate love with which the King had regarded her, Mademoiselle de Hauteford had entirely triumphed over her own heart, and having crushed every human sensation that it contained, she substituted a rigid principle of duty, which, like the mainspring of a piece of clock-work, originated all her actions, making them regular without energy and correct without feeling.

In the present instance, she seemed to look upon the task which Pauline had undertaken as a thing which ought to be done, and therefore that no doubt or hesitation of any kind could remain upon her mind. She talked calmly of all the difficulties and dangers which presented themselves, and of the best means of obviating them; but did not offer the least consolation to the fears of a young and inexperienced girl, who had taken upon herself a bold and perilous enterprise, in which her own happiness was at stake, as well as the lives and fortunes of others. The indifferent coolness with which she spoke of risks and obstacles was far from reassuring Pauline, who soon dropped the conversation, and sinking into herself, revolved all the circumstances in her mind; her heart sometimes beating high with hope, sometimes sickening at the thought of failure.

Thus in silence the travellers proceeded to Ecouen, where, from the lateness of the hour, they were obliged to pass the night; but leaving it early the next morning, they reached Paris in a short time, and alighted at the hotel of the Marchioness de Senecy. That Lady, it appeared, was absent, having left Paris some time before for a distant part of the country; but this was no disadvantage, as Mademoiselle de Hauteford was well known to the servants that remained in the house, and she did not in the least hesitate to take up her abode there on the service of the Queen, though the mistress of the mansion herself was absent.

At Ecouen, Pauline had dressed herself in the clothes of her maid Louise, and on alighting at the hotel de Senecy, was taken by the servants for the soubrette of Mademoiselle de Hauteford. All this was to her wish; and not a little delighted with the first success of her disguise, she affected the ton paysan, and treated the domestics with the same familiarity which they showed towards her.

An old and confidential servant of the Queen was the only male attendant who accompanied them to Paris, and he took especial care not to undeceive the others in regard to Mademoiselle de Beaumont’s rank, though he had more than once nearly betrayed the secret by smiling at the Lady’s maid airs which Pauline contrived to assume. This task, however, was not of long duration; for Pauline’s anxiety would not suffer her to remain inactive, and she accordingly pressed her companion to set out speedily for the Bastille, afraid that under any long delay her courage, which she felt to be failing every moment, might give way entirely, and that she might at length prove unequal to accomplish her undertaking.

Mademoiselle de Hauteford, whose acquaintance with the city qualified her to act as guide, readily agreed to proceed immediately on their expedition; and Pauline’s disguise as soubrette not permitting her to make use of a mask like her companion, she covered her head as far as she could with a large capuchin of brown tafetas, which, however, was all-insufficient to conceal her face. This being done, she followed the Lady of honour into the street, and in a moment found herself immersed in all the bustle and confusion of the capital.

Poor Pauline’s senses were almost bewildered by the crowd; but Mademoiselle de Hauteford, leaning on her arm, hurried her on as far as the Rue St. Antoine, where she stopped opposite to the Church of St. Gervais, or rather the narrow dirty street which leads towards it.

Here she directed Pauline straight on to the Bastille, and pointing out the church, told her that she would wait there for her return, offering up prayers for the success of her enterprise.

The magnificent peristyle of the Church of St. Gervais, which the celebrated De Brosse is said to have pronounced the most perfect of his works,—observing, like Solon on the Athenian Laws, that it was not, indeed, the best that could be formed, but the best that could be adapted to the old gothic building which he was directed to improve,—was then in the first gloss of its novelty, and amongst the many sombre smoky buildings that she had passed, offered to Pauline’s eye a bright and conspicuous landmark, which she felt sure she could not mistake. She took, however, another glance, and then hurried on towards the Bastille.

Totally ignorant of Paris and all that it contained; young, beautiful and timid; engaged in an undertaking full of danger and difficulty, and dressed in a manner to which she was unaccustomed; Pauline de Beaumont shrank from the glance of the numerous passengers that thronged the Rue St. Antoine; and every eye which, attracted by her loveliness, or by the frightened haste with which she proceeded, gazed on her with more than common attention, she fancied could see into her bosom, and read the secret she was so anxious to conceal.

At length, however, her eye rested on a group of heavy towers, presenting nothing but massy stone walls, pierced with loop-holes, and surmounted at various distances with embrasures, through the aperture of which the threatening mouths of some large cannon were occasionally visible. Sweeping round this gloomy building was a broad fosse filled with water, which prevented all approach but at one particular point, where a drawbridge, suspended by two immense chains, gave access to the outer court. But even here no small precaution was taken to guard against any who came in other than friendly guise; for the gate which terminated the bridge on the inner side, besides the security afforded by its ponderous doors and barricadoes, possessed two flanking-towers, the artillery of which commanded the whole course of the approach.

Pauline had often heard the Bastille described, and its horrors detailed, by the guests who occasionally visited her mother’s chÂteau in Languedoc; but, whatever idea she had formed of it, the frowning strength and gloomy horrors which the original presented, far outdid the picture her imagination had drawn; and so strong was the sensation of fear which it produced upon her mind, that she had nearly turned back and run away the moment she beheld it. An instant’s reflection, however, reawakened her courage.

“Claude de Blenau,” she thought, “immured within those walls! and do I hesitate when his life, perhaps, depends upon my exertion?” That thought was enough to recall all her resolution; and rapidly crossing the drawbridge, she passed what is called the grille. But here her farther progress was stayed by a massy door covered with plates and studs of iron, which offered none of those happy contrivances either of modern or ancient days, by which people within are called upon to communicate with people without. There was no horn, as in the days of chivalry, and if there had been, Pauline could not have blown it; but still worse, there was neither bell nor knocker; and the door, far from imitating the gates of Dis, in standing open night and day, seemed most determinately shut, although the comparison might have held in many other respects. With shaking knees and trembling hands Pauline tried for some moments to gain admission, but in vain. The gate resisted all her weak efforts, her voice was scarcely audible, and vexed, wearied, and terrified, and not knowing what to do, she burst into a flood of tears.

At about a hundred yards on the other side of the fosse, forming one corner of the Rue St. Antoine, on the face of which it seemed a wart, or imposthume, stood a little narrow house of two stories high, the front of which displayed an immense board covered with a curious and remarkable device. This represented no other than the form of an immense wild boar, with a napkin tucked under his chin, seated at a table, on which smoked various savoury dishes, of which the above ferocious gentleman appeared to be partaking with a very wild-boarish appetite. Underneath all was written, in characters of such a size that those who ran might read, Au Sanglier Gourmand, and then followed a farther inscription, which went to state that Jacques Chatpilleur, autrefois Vivandier de l’ArmÉe de Perpignan, À present Aubergiste Traiteur, fed the hungry, and gave drink to those that thirsted, at all hours of the day and night.

Every one will allow that this man must have been blessed with a charitable disposition; and it so happened that, standing at his own door, with his heart opened by the benign influence of having cooked a dinner for the Count de Blenau, he beheld the ineffectual efforts of Pauline de Beaumont to gain admission into the Bastille.

The poor little man’s heart was really moved; and skipping across the drawbridge, he was at her side in a moment. “What seek you, charmante demoiselle?” demanded the aubergiste, making her a low bow; and then observing her tears, he added, “Ma pauvre fille, do not weep. Do you wish to get in here?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Pauline; “but I cannot make them hear.”

“There are many who want to get out, who cannot make them hear either,” said the aubergiste: “but they shall hear me, at all events.” So saying, he drew forth his knife, with a flourish which made Pauline start back, and applied the handle with such force to the gate of the prison, that the whole place echoed with the blows. Immediately, a little wicket was opened, and the head of a surly-looking Porter presented itself at the aperture.

“Philip the Woodman! Philip the Woodman!” said he, as soon as he heard Pauline’s inquiries. “Who is he, I wonder? We have nothing to do with woodmen here. Oh, I remember the man. And we are to break through all rules and regulations for him, I suppose? But I can tell Monsieur Chavigni, or whoever gave the order, that I shall not turn the key for any one except at proper hours; so you cannot see him now, young woman—you cannot see him now.”

“And is not this a proper hour?” asked Pauline. “I thought mid-day was the best time I could come.”

“No!” answered the Porter, “I tell you no, my pretty demoiselle; this is the dinner-hour, so you must come again.”

“When can I come then, Sir?” demanded Pauline, “for I have journeyed a long way to see him.”

“Why, then you are in need of rest,” replied the other, “so you will be all the better for waiting till evening. Come about seven o’clock, and you shall see him.”

“Cannot I see him before that?” asked the young lady, terrified at the delay.

“No! no! no!” roared the Porter, and turned to shut the wicket; but bethinking him for a moment, he called after Mademoiselle de Beaumont—“Who shall I tell him wants him, when I see him?”

Pauline was unprepared with an answer, but the necessity of the moment made her reply, “His daughter;” trusting that, as there must be some understanding between him and De Blenau, the Woodman would conceive her errand, and not betray any surprise, whether he had a daughter or not.

During this conversation, the aubergiste had remained hard by, really compassionating Pauline’s disappointment.

“Ma pauvre fille,” said he, as the wicket closed, “I am very sorry that they treat you so; but they are great brutes in these prisons. Bon Dieu! you look very pale. Come in with me here to my little place, and take some soup, and rest yourself till the time comes round.”

Pauline thanked him for his offer, but declined it, of course; telling him, that she was going to the house of a friend who waited for her; and then taking leave of the good aubergiste, she left him interested in her sorrow, and enchanted by her sweet manner.

“La pauvrette!” said he, as he turned him home, “Elle a bien l’air d’une femme de qualitÉ Ça. Il y a quelque chose la dessous, ou je me trompe.”

In the mean while, Pauline returned to the Church of St. Gervais, where she found Mademoiselle de Hauteford still on her knees in the Chapel of St. Denis.

Pauline’s recital of what had happened, called forth but few remarks from her companion, who only observed, that seven would be an unpleasant hour, for that by that time night began to fall. To Mademoiselle de Beaumont, however, night seemed more favourable to her enterprise than day, when the trepidation which she felt was visible to every passing eye; and she congratulated herself on the prospect of the darkness covering the agitation which might lead to suspicion if observed.

I shall not follow the two ladies through the remaining part of the day. Suffice it, that Mademoiselle de Hauteford employed herself in preparations for the long journey which the Cardinal’s sentence of banishment required her to take, and that Pauline’s time passed in anxiety and apprehension, till the hour came for her once more to visit the Bastille.

As soon as the long hand upon the dial pointed towards the Roman capitals IX. and the shorter one to VII. the two ladies set out in the same guise, and on the same route, as in the morning, with only this difference in their proceedings, that the old domestic of the Queen, who had accompanied them to Paris, received orders to follow at a few paces distance, well armed with sword and pistol.

It was now quite dark, and the streets not being so crowded as when she before passed through them, Pauline proceeded more calmly, except when the torch-bearers of some of the gay world of Paris flashed their flambeaux in her eyes as they lighted their lords along to party or spectacle. At the Church of St. Gervais she again left Mademoiselle de Hauteford with the servant; and now, well acquainted with the way, ran lightly along till she arrived at the Bastille, where, not giving her resolution time to fail, she passed the drawbridge, and entered the outer gate, which was at that moment open. Before her stood the figure of the Porter, enjoying the cool evening air that blew through the open gate into the court. His hand rested upon the edge of the door, and the moment Pauline entered, he pushed it to with a clang that made her heart sink.

“Whom have we here,” said he, “that comes in so boldly? Oh, so! is it you, ma belle demoiselle?” he continued, as the light of the lanterns which hung under the arch fell upon her countenance:—“well, you shall see your father now. But first, I think, you had better go and speak to the Governor; he is a man of taste, and would like such a pretty prisoner, no doubt; perhaps he might find a warrant for your detention.”

Pauline’s heart sank at the idea of being carried before the Governor, well knowing how little competent she was to answer any inquiries concerning her errand; but the excess of fear will often give courage, and the most timid animals turn and resist when pressed to extremity. Thus Pauline summoned up all her resolution, and remembering the allusion which the Porter had made to Chavigni’s orders in favour of the Woodman, she replied boldly: “This is no time for jesting, Sir! and as to detaining me, it would be as much as the Governor’s post is worth, if it came to Monsieur de Chavigni’s ears that he ever thought of such a thing.”

“So, so!” cried the Porter with a grin, “you are a friend of Monsieur de Chavigni’s. So—I thought there was something made him so careful of yon sour old Woodman. These great Statesmen must have their little relaxations. So that is it, Mademoiselle? He takes especial care of the father for the daughter’s sake.”

There was a drop or two of the warm blood of Languedoc flowing in Pauline’s veins with all her gentleness, and her patience now became completely exhausted. “Well, Sir!” she answered, “all I have to say to you is, that if I meet with any insolence, it may cost you dear. So bring me to see my father, or refuse me at once.”

“I am not going to refuse you, my pretty demoiselle,” replied the Porter; “though, truly, you speak more like a lady of quality than a Woodman’s daughter. Now I’ll swear you are Madame la Comtesse’s suivante. Nay, do not toss your head so impatiently; your father will be here in a minute; he knows of your having called at the wicket this morning, and is to come here to see you at seven—But here is the Governor, as I live—going to take a twilight walk, I suppose.”

As he spoke, the Governor approached: “Whom have you got here, porter?” he asked, while he eyed Pauline with one of those cool luxurious glances that made her shrink.

“This is the Woodman’s daughter, Sir,” replied the man, “who wishes to speak with her father.”

“By the keys of St. Peter! which are something in my own way,” exclaimed the Governor, “thou art a beautiful daughter for a Woodman. Art thou sure thy mother did not help thee to a better parentage? What is thy father’s name?”

Terrified, confused, and ignorant of the Woodman’s name, Pauline faltered forth, unconscious of what she said, “I do not know.”

“Ha! ha! ha! thou sayest well, my pretty damsel,” cried the Governor laughing, and thinking that she answered his jest in kind. “It is a wise father that knows his own child; and why not a wise child that knows his own father? But without a joke, what is your supposed father’s name?”

“My supposed father!” repeated Pauline, in the same state of perturbation; “Oh, Philip the Woodman.”

“Nay, nay,” replied the Governor, “that does not answer my meaning either. What is the surname of this Philip the Woodman?”

The impossibility of answering overpowered her. Pauline had not the most remote idea of Philip’s name, and another instant would indubitably have betrayed all; but at the moment the Governor asked his question, Philip had entered the court. He had heard the last sentence, saw Pauline’s embarrassment, and divining its cause, with quick presence of mind caught her in his arms, and kissed her on both cheeks, with that sort of fatherly affection which would have deceived the Governor’s eyes by day, much less by the fainter light of the lanterns in the archway.

“My dear child!” cried he, “how art thou? and how is thy mother?” And then turning to the Governor, without giving her time to reply, he went on, “My name, Sir, which you were asking but now, is Philip Grissolles, but I am better known by the name of Philip the Woodman, and some folks add the name of the wood, and call me Philip the Woodman of Mantes.”

“Philip Grissolles!” said the Governor; “very well, that will do. It was your surname that I wished to know, for it is not put down in the order for your detention, and it must be inserted in the books. And now, Monsieur Philip Grissolles, you may take your daughter to your cell; but remember that you have to wait upon the Count de Blenau in half an hour, by which time I shall have returned. You can leave your daughter in your cell till you have done attending the Count, if you like.”

He then proceeded to the gate, and beckoning to the Porter, he whispered to him, “Do not let her go out till I come back. It is seldom that we have any thing like that in the Bastille! Doubtless, that Woodman would be glad to have her with him; if so, we will find her a cell.”

Philip turned his ear to catch what the Governor was saying, but not being able to hear it distinctly, he addressed himself to Pauline loud enough to reach every one round. “Come,” said he, “ma fille, you are frightened at all these towers and walls and places; but it is not so unpleasant after one is in it either. Take my arm, and I’ll show you the way.”

Pauline was glad to accept of his offer, for her steps faltered so much that she could hardly have proceeded without assistance; and thus, leaning on the Woodman, she was slowly conducted through a great many narrow passages, to the small vaulted chamber in which he was lodged.

As soon as they had entered, the Woodman shut the door, and placing for Pauline’s use the only chair that the room contained, he began to pour forth a thousand excuses for the liberty he had taken with her cheek. “I hope you will consider, Mademoiselle, that there was no other way for me to act, in order to bring us out of the bad job we had fallen into. The Porter of the prison told me this morning that my daughter was coming to see me, and knowing very well I had no daughter, I guessed that it was some one on the Count de Blenau’s account; but little did I think that it was you, Mademoiselle—you that I saw in the wood of Mantes on the day he was wounded.”

Pauline was still too much agitated with all that had passed to make any reply, and sitting with her hands pressed over her eyes, her thoughts were all confusion, though one terrible remembrance still predominated, that she was there—in the very heart of the Bastille—far from all those on whom she was accustomed to rely—habited in a disguise foreign to her rank—acting an assumed character, and engaged in an enterprise of life and death.

All this was present to her, not so much as a thought, but as a feeling; and for a moment or two it deprived her not only of utterance, but of reflection. As her mind grew more calm, however, the great object for which she came began again to recover the ascendency; and she gradually regained sufficient command over her ideas to comprehend the nature of the excuses which Philip was still offering for his presumption, as he termed it.

“You did perfectly right,” replied Pauline; “and, having extricated us from a dangerous predicament, merit my sincere thanks. But now,” she continued, “without loss of time I must see the Count de Blenau.”

“See the Count de Blenau!” exclaimed Philip in astonishment. “Impossible, Mademoiselle! utterly impossible! I can deliver a letter or a message; but that is all I can do.”

“Why not?” demanded Pauline. “For pity’s sake, do not trifle with me. If you have free admission to his prison, why cannot you open the way to me?”

“Because, Mademoiselle, there is a sentinel at his door who would not allow you to pass,” replied Philip. “I have no wish to trifle with you, indeed; but what you ask is merely impossible.”

Pauline thought for a moment. “Cannot we bribe the sentinel?” she demanded. “Here is gold.”

“That is not to be done either,” answered Philip. “He is not allowed to speak to any one, or any one to speak to him. The first word, his fusil would be at my breast; and the second, he would fire: such are his orders, Mademoiselle, and be sure he would obey them.”

“Well then,” cried Pauline, “fly to the Count de Blenau, tell him that there is a lady here from the Queen, with a letter which she must not trust to any one else, and ask him what is to be done—but do not stay long, for I am afraid of remaining here by myself.”

The Woodman promised not to be a moment, and hastened to the Count de Blenau’s apartment, where the wary sentinel, as usual, examined him well to ascertain his identity before he gave him admission. He then entered and communicated as rapidly as possible to De Blenau the message he had received.

“It is Mademoiselle de Hauteford, without doubt,” said De Blenau thoughtfully; “I must see her by all means.”

“See her, Sir!” exclaimed Philip. “The guard will never let her pass. It is quite impossible.”

“Not so impossible as you think. The gates of the inner court do not shut, I think, till nearly nine—Is there any one in the court?”

“No one, Sir,” answered the Woodman; “all the State prisoners were locked up at six.”

“Well then, Philip,” proceeded De Blenau, “do you know a small tower in the court, where you just see through the archway part of an old flight of steps?”

“Oh yes, I know it well,” replied Philip. “The tower is never used now, they tell me. There is a heap of rubbish in the doorway.”

“Exactly,” said the Count. “Now, my good Philip, bring the lady with all speed to that tower, and up the old flight of steps till you come to a small iron door: push that with your hand, and you will find that it brings you into the inner room, where I will wait for you.”

Philip’s joy and astonishment found vent in three Bon Dieu’s! and three Est-il possible's and rushing away without more loss of time, he flew to Pauline, whose stay in his cell had been undisturbed by any thing but her own anxious fears. These, however, magnified every sound into the approach of some one to be dreaded. Even the footstep of the Woodman made her heart beat with alarm; but the news he brought far more than compensated for it, and, inspired with new hope, she followed him gladly through the gloomy passages which led to the inner court.

The darkness which pervaded the unlighted avenues of the Bastille was so great, that Pauline was obliged to follow close upon Philip’s footsteps for fear of losing her way. The Woodman, however, was a little in advance, when a faint light showed that they were approaching the open air, and Pauline began to catch an indistinct glimpse of the dark towers that surrounded the inner court. But at that moment Philip drew back:—“There is some one in the court,” he whispered: “Hark!"—and listening, she clearly heard the sound of measured steps crossing the open space before her.

“It is the guard,” said the Woodman, in the same low voice; “they are going to relieve the sentinel at the Count’s door.” He now waited till they were heard ascending the stairs, and then, “Quick, follow me across the court, Mademoiselle,” he said; “for they go through this passage on their return.”

Pauline was about to follow him as he desired, but her dress caught upon one of the staples of the doorway. Philip attempted to disentangle it for her, but in vain, his efforts only fixed it the more. Pauline herself tried to tear it away, but the soubrette’s stout serge-dress would not tear. In the mean time they heard the “Qui vive?” of the sentinel, the countersign returned, the relief of the guard; and by the time that Philip had by main strength torn away the dress from the staple that had caught it, the steps of the soldiers were again heard descending the staircase from the prison of De Blenau.

“For God’s sake, Mademoiselle,” whispered the Woodman, “run back as quickly as you can to my cell, for we cannot pass now without their seeing us. I will wait here, for they would hear my heavy feet in the passage, and follow us both; but if I can stop them a while, I will, to give you time.”

Pauline doubted not that she could remember the turnings, and, gliding along as fast as possible, she endeavoured to find her way back. As she went, she heard some words pass between Philip and the guard; and immediately after, she distinguished that they had entered the passage, for the echoing tramp of their feet, reverberated by the low arches, seemed following close upon her. Terrified and agitated, she flew on with the speed of lightning. But we all know how difficult it is to retrace any course we have pursued in the dark; and in her haste and confusion, Pauline lost the turning she ought to have taken, and, afraid of going back, even after she discovered her mistake, she paused for a moment in a state of alarm and suspense, little short of agony.

She could now distinctly hear the guard approaching, and not knowing where the passage might terminate, or what might obstruct the path, she felt her way with her hand along the wall, till at length she discovered a small recess, apparently one of those archways which gave entrance to the various cells, for beneath her fingers she felt the massy bolts and fastenings which secured it from without. She had scarce a moment to think, but, placing herself under the arch, she drew back as far as possible, in the hope that sheltered by the recess, and concealed by the darkness, the guard would pass her by unnoticed.

It was a dreadful moment for poor Pauline. The soldiers were not so near as the echoes of the place had led her to imagine; and she had several minutes to wait, holding her breath, and drawing herself in, as if to nothing, while the tramp of the armed feet came nearer and nearer, till at length she felt, or fancied that she felt, their clothes brush against her as they passed; and then heard their steps becoming fainter and more faint as they proceeded to some other part of the building.

It was not till all was again silent, that Pauline ventured, still trembling with the danger she had just escaped, to seek once more the path she had lost in her terror. But her search was now in vain; she had entirely forgot the turnings that she had taken in her flight, and in the darkness only went wandering on from one passage to another, starting at every sound, and always convinced that she was mistaken, but not knowing in what direction to seek the right.

At length, however, she found herself at a gateway which led into what seemed an open court, and imagining from the towers she saw round about, that she had arrived once more at the spot from which she had been frightened by the approach of the guards, she resolved again to seek more cautiously the cell of the Woodman, to which, of course, he would return in search of her. But as she turned to put this resolve in execution, she perceived a light coming down the passage towards her; and without giving herself a moment to reflect that it might possibly be the Woodman himself, fear seized her again, and darting across the court, she looked round for some place of concealment.

Exactly opposite, she perceived another archway similar to the one she had left, and concealing herself within it, she paused to see who it was that followed, it just occurring to her mind at that instant, that perhaps she was in full career away from the very person she wished to find. But, the moment after, the light appeared in the archway, and glancing on the face of the man who carried it, discovered to her the features of the Governor.

This sight was not calculated to allay her fears; but her alarm was infinitely increased when she perceived that he began crossing the court towards the spot where she stood. Flight again became her resource, and, turning to escape through the passages to which she supposed that archway led, as well as the others, she struck her foot against some steps and had nearly fallen. Recovering herself, however, without loss of time she began ascending the steps that lay before her, nor stopped, till reaching a small landing-place, she looked through one of the loopholes in the wall, and beheld the Governor directing his course to another part of the building.

Satisfied that he did not follow her, but faint and out of breath with the speed she had employed in her flight, Pauline paused for a moment’s repose; and stretching out her hand, she leaned against a door which stood at the top of the staircase:—however, it afforded her no support, for the moment she touched it, it gave way under her hand, and flying open, discovered to her a well-lighted apartment. New terror seized upon Pauline; her eyes were dazzled by the sudden glare, and drawing back she would have fallen headlong down the stairs, but at that instant she was caught in the arms of De Blenau.