G. P. R. James

Showing what it is to be a day after the Fair; with sundry other matters, which the reader cannot fully comprehend without reading them.

HAVING now left the Woodman as unhappy as we could wish, and De Blenau very little better off than he was before; we must proceed with Pauline, and see what we can do for her in the same way.

It has been already said that, in the hurry of her flight, she struck her foot against a stone, and fell. This is an unpleasant accident at all times, and more especially when one is running away; but Pauline suffered it not to interrupt her flight one moment longer than necessary. Finding that some unexpected obstacle had delayed her pursuer as well as herself, she was upon her feet in a moment; and leaving him to arrange his difference with Monsieur Chatpilleur in the best way he could, she flew on towards the Rue Saint Antoine, without stopping to thank her deliverer; and, indeed, without knowing that the good aubergiste, taking a sincere interest in her fate, had, at the hour appointed, waited at the door of his auberge till he saw her enter the Bastille, and then, from some undefined feeling that all would not go right, had watched anxiously to see her safe out again.

The interest not being reciprocal, Pauline had forgot all about the aubergiste; and only seeing that some one obstructed her pursuer, she fled, as I have said before, to the Rue Saint Antoine. She passed Jacques Chatpilleur’s little auberge, without any exchange of sentiment, even with the Sanglier Gourmand, and darted by the boutique of a passementier with the same celerity. The next shop was a marchand de broderie et de dentelle, with a little passage, or cul de sac, between it and the following house, which was occupied by a brocanteur, both which trades requiring daylight in aid of their operations, were at that hour firmly closed with bolt and bar, nor shed one solitary ray to light the passenger along the streets.

Just as she had come opposite to the first of these, Pauline found some one seize her robe behind, and the next minute a large Spanish cloak was thrown over her head, while a gigantic pair of arms embracing her waist, raised her from the ground, and bore her along the street. Naturally conceiving that she was in the power of some of her pursuers from the Bastille, Pauline did not perceive, in the dreadful agitation of the moment, that she was carried in a different direction; and, giving herself up for lost, she yielded to her fate without scream or cry. Whoever it was that held her, carried her like a feather; but after striding along through several turnings, he paused, placed her on the ground, and still holding the cloak over her head with one hand, seemed to open a door with the other. The next moment he raised her again, though in a different position, and carried her up what was evidently a small winding staircase, at the top of which he again opened a door, where, even through the cloak, Pauline could perceive that they had entered some place which contained a powerful light. The moment the door was open, some one exclaimed, “It is her! Oh Jesu! yes, it is her!” in a voice which sounded so like that of her maid Louise that Pauline was more than ever bewildered. The person who had carried her, now placed her in a chair, and taking the additional security of tying the cloak over her head, communicated for a few minutes with the other person in whispers; after which Pauline fancied that some one quitted the room. The covering was then removed from her eyes, and she found herself in a small, meanly-furnished apartment, whose only occupant, besides herself, was a handsome man, of very gigantic proportions, and of that sort of daring aspect which smacked a little of the bravo. He was well dressed in a pourpoint of green lustring, braided with gold lace, slightly tarnished; the haut-de-chausses was of the same, tied down the side with red ribbons; and the cloak which he removed from Pauline’s head seemed to form a part of the dress, though he had deprived himself of it for the moment, to answer the purpose in which we have seen it employed. On the whole, he was a good-looking cavalier, though there was a certain air of lawlessness in his countenance and mien which made Pauline shrink.

“Nay, do not be afraid, Mademoiselle,” said he, with a strong Norman accent: “Point de danger, point de danger;” and he strove to reassure her to the best of his power. He possessed no great eloquence, however, at least of the kind calculated to calm a lady’s fears; and the only thing which tended to give Pauline any relief, was the manifest respect with which he addressed her, standing cap in hand, and reiterating that no harm was intended or could happen to her.

She listened without attending, too much frightened to believe his words to their full extent, and striving to gain from the objects round about some more precise knowledge of her situation. She was evidently not in the Bastille; for the door of the room, instead of offering to her view bolts and bars, of such complicated forms that, like the mousetrap, they would have puzzled the man that made them, was only fastened by a single wooden lock, the key of which, like a dog’s tongue in a hot day, kept lolling out with a negligent inclination towards the ground, very much at ease in its keyhole. The more Pauline gazed around her, the more she was bewildered; and after resolving twenty times to speak to the Norman, and as often failing in courage, she at last produced an articulate sound, which went to inquire where she was. The Norman, who had been walking up and down the room, as if waiting the arrival of some one, stopped in the midst, and making a low inclination, begged to assure Mademoiselle that she was in a place of safety.

The ice being broken, Pauline demanded, “Did not I hear the voice of my maid Louise?”

“No; it was my wife, Mademoiselle,” replied her companion drily; and recommencing his perambulations, the young lady sank back into herself. At length a tap was heard at the door, and the Norman starting forward went on the outside, closing it after him, though not completely; and of the conversation which ensued between him and some other man, Pauline could catch detached sentences, which, though they served but little to elucidate her position to herself, may be of service to the reader.

At first all was conducted in a whisper, but the Norman soon broke forth, “Sachristie! I tell you she got in. I did not catch her till she was coming out.”

“Monseigneur will be precious angry with us both,” answered the other. “How I missed you, I cannot imagine; I only went to call upon la petite Jeanette, and did not stay five minutes.”

“And I just stepped into the Sanglier Gourmand,” rejoined our Norman, “which is opposite, you know. There I thought I could see all that went on. But that maraud, Jacques Chatpilleur, was always at his door about something; so finding that I could not get my second bottle of wine, I went down to the cave for it myself; and she must have passed while I was below.”

“How did you find out, then, that she had got into the Bastille?” demanded the other.

The Norman’s reply was delivered in so low a tone that Pauline could only distinguish the words—“Heard a scream—saw her running past like mad—threw the cloak over her, and brought her here.”

“Perhaps she was not in, after all,” rejoined the other; “but at all events, we must tell Monseigneur so. You swear you caught her just as she was going in, and I’ll vow that I was there and saw you.”

A new consultation seemed to take place; but the speakers proceeded so rapidly, that Pauline could not comprehend upon what it turned exactly, although she was herself evidently the subject of discussion. “Oh, she will not tell, for her own sake,” said one of the voices. “She would be banished, to a certainty, if it was known that she got in; and as to the folks at the Bastille, be sure that they will hold their tongues.”

Something was now said about a letter, and the voice of the Norman replied, “Monseigneur does not suppose that she had a letter. Oh, no! trust me, she had none. It was word of mouth work, be you sure. They were too cunning to send a letter which might be stopped upon her. No, no, they know something more than that.”

“Well, then, the sooner we take her there, the better,” rejoined the other; “the carriage is below, but you must blind her eyes, for she may know the liveries.”

“Ah! your cursed livery betrayed us once before,” answered the Norman. “Holla! la haut! mon Ange, give me a kerchief; I will tie her eyes with that, for the cloak almost smothers her, poor little soul!”

A light step was now heard coming down stairs, and a third person was added to the party without. What they said, Pauline could not make out; but though speaking in a whisper, she was still confident that she distinguished the voice of her maid Louise. “Harm!” said the Norman, after a moment, “we are going to do her no harm, chÈre amie! She will be down there in Maine, with the Countess, and as happy as a Princess. Give this gentleman the trunk-mail, and get yourself ready against I come back; for we have our journey to take too, you know, ma petite femme.”

The Norman now laid his hand upon the lock; there was a momentary bustle as of the party separating; and then entering the room, he informed Pauline that she must allow him to blindfold her eyes. Knowing that resistance was in vain, Pauline submitted with a good grace; and, her fears considerably allayed by the conversation she had overheard, attempted to draw from the Norman some farther information. But here he was inflexible; and having tied the handkerchief over her eyes, so as completely to prevent her seeing, he conducted her gently down the stairs, taking care to keep her from falling; and having arrived in the open air, lifted her lightly into a carriage, placed himself by her side, and gave orders to drive on.

The vehicle had not proceeded many minutes, when it again stopped; and Pauline was lifted out, conducted up a flight of stone steps, and then led into an apartment, where she was placed in a fauteuil, the luxurious softness of which bespoke a very different sort of furniture from that of the chamber which she had just left. There was now a little bustle, and a good deal of whispering, and then every one seemed to leave the room. Fancying herself alone, Pauline raised her hand, in order to remove the handkerchief from her eyes, at least for a moment; but a loud “Prenez garde!” from the Norman, stopped her in her purpose, and the next instant a door opened, and she heard steps approaching.

“Shut the door,” said a voice she had never heard before. “Marteville, you have done well. Are you sure that she had no conversation with any one within the prison?”

“I will swear to it!” answered the Norman, with the stout asseveration of a determined liar. “Ask your man Chauvelin, Monseigneur; he was by, and saw me catch hold of her before she was at the gate.”

“So he says,” rejoined the other; “but now leave the room. I must have some conversation with this demoiselle myself. Wait for me without.”

“Pardie!” muttered the Norman, as he withdrew; “he’ll find it out now, and then I’m ruined.”

“Mademoiselle de Beaumont,” said the person that remained, “you have been engaged in a rash and dangerous enterprise—Had you succeeded in it, the Bastille must have been your doom, and severe judgment according to the law. By timely information on the subject, I have been enabled to save you from such a fate; but I am sorry to say that, for the safety of all parties, you must endure an absence from your friends for some time.”

He paused, as if expecting a reply; and Pauline, after a moment’s consideration, determined to answer, in order to draw from him, if possible, some farther information concerning the manner in which he had become acquainted with her movements, and also in regard to her future destination. “I perceive, Sir,” said she, “from your conversation, that you belong to the same rank of society as myself; but I am at a loss to imagine how any gentleman presumes to attribute dangerous enterprises, and actions deserving imprisonment, to a lady, of whom he neither does, nor can know any thing.”

“My dear young lady,” replied her companion, “you make me smile. I did not think that I should have to put forth my diplomatic powers against so fair and so youthful an opponent. But allow me to remind you that, when young ladies of the highest rank are found masquerading in the streets at night, dressed in their servants’ garments, they subject their conduct, perhaps, to worse misconstructions than that which I have put upon yours. But, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, I know you, and I know the spirit of your family too well to suppose that any thing but some great and powerful motive could induce you to appear as you do now. Withdraw that bandage from your eyes, (I have no fear of encountering them,) and look if that be a dress in which Mademoiselle de Beaumont should be seen.”

Pauline’s quick fingers instantly removed the handkerchief, and raising her eyes, she found that she was placed exactly before a tall Venetian mirror, which offered her a complete portrait of herself, sitting in an immense arm-chair of green velvet, and disguised in the costume of a Languedoc paysanne. The large capote, or hood, which she had worn, had been thrust back by the Norman, in order to blindfold her eyes, and her dark hair, all dishevelled, was hanging about her face in glossy confusion. The red serge jupe of Louise had acquired in the passages of the Bastille no inconsiderable portion of dust; and near the knee on which she had fallen at the foot of the glacis, it was stained with mire, as well as slightly torn. In addition to all this, appeared a large rent at the side, occasioned by the efforts of Philip the woodman to disengage it from the staple on which it had caught; and the black bodice had been broadly marked with green mould, in pressing against the wall while the guards passed so near to her.

Her face also was deathly pale, with all the alarm, agitation, and fatigue she had undergone; so that no person could be more different from the elegant and blooming Pauline de Beaumont than the figure which that mirror reflected. Pauline almost started when she beheld herself; but quickly recovering from her surprise, she cast her eyes round the room, which was furnished in the most splendid and costly manner, and filled with a thousand objects of curiosity or luxury, procured from all the quarters of the globe.

Her attention, however, rested not upon any of these. Within a few paces of the chair in which she sat, stood a tall elegant man, near that period of life called the middle age, but certainly rather below than above the point to which the term is generally applied. He was splendidly dressed, according to the custom of the day; and the neat trimming of his beard and mustaches, the regular arrangement of his dark flowing hair, and the scrupulous harmony and symmetry of every part of his apparel, contradicted the thoughtful, dignified expression of his eyes, which seemed occupied with much higher thoughts. Vandyke has transmitted to us many such a physiognomy, and many such a dress; but few of his costumes are more splendid, or his countenances more dignified, than was that of the stranger who stood beside Mademoiselle de Beaumont.

He paused for a moment, giving her time to make what examination she liked of every thing in the apartment; and as her eye glanced to himself, demanded with a smile, “Well, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, do you recollect me?”

“Not in the least,” replied Pauline: “I think, Sir, that we can never have seen each other before.”

“Yes, we have,” answered her companion, “but it was at a distance. However, now look in that glass, and tell me—Do you recollect yourself?”

“Hardly!” replied Pauline, with a blush, “hardly, indeed!”

“Well then, fair lady, I think that you will no longer demand my reasons for attributing to you dangerous enterprises, and actions, as you say, deserving imprisonment; but to put an end to your doubts at once, look at that order, where, I think, you will find yourself somewhat accurately described.” And he handed to Pauline a small piece of parchment, beginning with the words of serious import ‘De par le roy,’ and going on to order the arrest of the Demoiselle Pauline, daughter of the late Marquis de Beaumont, and of the Dame Anne de la HautiÈre; with all those good set terms and particulars, which left no room for mistake or quibble, even if it had been examined by the eyes of the sharpest lawyer of the Cour des Aides.

“What say you now, Mademoiselle de Beaumont?” demanded her companion, seeing her plunged in embarrassment and surprise.

“I have nothing to say, Sir,” replied Pauline, “but that I must submit. However, I trust that, in common humanity, I shall be allowed to see my mother, either when I am in prison, or before I am conveyed thither.”

“You mistake me,” said the other; “you are not going to a prison. I only intend that you should take a little journey into the country; during the course of which all attention shall be paid to your comfort and convenience. Of course, young lady, when you undertook the difficult task of conveying a message from the Queen to a prisoner in the Bastille, you were prepared to risk the consequences. As you have not succeeded, no great punishment will fall upon you; but as it is absolutely necessary to the Government to prevent all communication between suspected parties, you must bear a temporary absence from the Court, till such time as this whole business be terminated; for neither the Queen, nor any one else, must know how far you have succeeded or failed.”

Pauline pleaded hard to be allowed to see her mother, but in vain. The stranger was obdurate, and would listen to neither entreaties, promises, nor remonstrances. All she could obtain was, the assurance that Madame de Beaumont should be informed of her safety, and that, perhaps, after a time she might be permitted to write to her. “Listen to me,” said the stranger, cutting short the prayers by which she was attempting to influence him. “I expect the King and Court from Chantilly within an hour; and before that time you must be out of Paris. For your convenience, a female servant shall attend you, and you will meet with all the respect due to your rank; but for your own sake, ask no questions, for I never permit my domestics to canvass my affairs with any one—nay, they are forbidden ever to mention my name, except for some express and permitted purpose. I will now leave you, and send Mathurine to your assistance, who will help you to change your dress from that coffre. You will then take some refreshment, and set out as speedily as possible. At the end of your journey, you will meet with one to whose care I have recommended you, and you will then learn in whose hands you are placed. At present, I have the honour of bidding you farewell.”

The uncertainty of her fate, the separation from her mother, the vague uneasy fear attendant upon want of all knowledge of whither she was going, and the impossibility of communicating with her friends under any event, raised up images far more terrifying and horrible to the mind of Pauline, than almost any specific danger could have done; and, as her companion turned away, she hid her face in her hands and wept.

Hearing her sob, and perhaps attributing her tears to other motives, he returned for a moment, and said in a low voice: “Do not weep, my dear child! I give you my honour, that you will be well and kindly treated. But one thing I forgot to mention. I know that your object was to visit the Count de Blenau; and I know, also, that a personal interest had something to do in the matter. Now, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, I can feel for you; and it may be some comfort to know, that M. de Blenau has, at least, one person in the Council, who will strive to give to the proceedings against him as much leniency as circumstances will admit.”

This said, he quitted the apartment, and in a moment after Pauline was joined by the female servant of whom he had spoken. She was a staid, reputable-looking woman, of about fifty, with a little of the primness of ancient maidenhood, but none of its acerbity. And, aware of Pauline’s rank, she assisted her to disentangle herself from her uncomfortable disguise with silent respect, though she could not help murmuring to herself. “Mon Dieu! Une demoiselle mise comme Ça.” She then called the young Lady’s attention to the contents of the coffre, asking which dress she would choose to wear; when, to her surprise, Pauline found that it contained a considerable part of her own wardrobe. Forgetting the prohibition to ask questions, she could not help demanding of Mathurine how her clothes could come there; but the servant was either ignorant, or pretended to be so, and Pauline could obtain no information. As soon as she was dressed, some refreshments were placed on the table by Mathurine, who received them from a servant at one of the doors, which she immediately closed again, and pressed Pauline to eat. Pauline at first refused; but at length, to satisfy her companion, who continued to insist upon it with a degree of quiet, persevering civility, that would take no refusal, she took some of the coffee, which was at that time served up as a rarity. As soon as ever the domestic perceived that no entreaty would induce her to taste any thing else, she called in a servant to carry the coffre to the carriage, and then notified to Pauline that it was time for them to depart.

Pauline felt that all resistance or delay would be vain; and she accordingly followed Mathurine down a magnificent staircase into a court-yard, where stood a chaise roulante, the door of which was held open by the Norman we have already mentioned, while two men-servants appeared ready mounted to follow the vehicle, as soon as it set out. Mathurine placed herself by Pauline’s side when she had entered; and the Norman, having closed the door, opened the porte-cochÈre of the court, and the carriage drove out into the street.

We will not take the trouble of following Mademoiselle de Beaumont on her journey, which occupied that night and the two following days:—suffice it to say, that on the evening of the second day they arrived in the beautiful neighbourhood of ChÂteau du Loir. The smiling slopes, covered with the first vines; the rich fruit-trees hanging actually over the road, and dropping with the latest gifts of liberal Nature; the balmy air of a warm September evening; the rosy cheeks of the peasantry; and the clear, smooth windings of the river Loir,[A] all announced that they were approaching the land of happy Touraine: and after putting her head more than once from the window, Mathurine, with a smile of pleasure, pointed forward, exclaiming, “VoilÀ le ChÂteau.”

Pauline’s eyes followed to the point where the other’s hand directed them; and upon a high ground, rising gently above the trees which crowned a little projecting turn of the river, she beheld a group of towers and pinnacles, with the conical-slated roofs, multifarious weathercocks, long narrow windows, one turret upon the back of another, and all the other distinctive marks of an old French chÂteau.