ICAN easily imagine myself, and I dare say the reader will not find much difficulty in fancying, that the Count de Blenau suffered not a little inquietude while he remained in uncertainty respecting Pauline’s free exit from the Bastille.

Take and draw him, as Sterne did his captive. See him walking up and down the chamber with the anxiety of doubt upon his brow and in his heart, listening for every sound in the court-yard, catching the footstep of the sentinel at his door, and fancying it the return of the Governor,—hope struggling against fear, and fear remaining victor,—conjuring up a thousand wild, improbable events, and missing the true one; and, in short, making his bosom a hell wherein to torment his own heart.

Thus did Claude de Blenau, during that lapse of time which the Governor might reasonably be supposed to be occupied in the duties of his office. But when a longer time passed, and still no news arrived of Pauline’s escape, the uncertainty became too great for mortal endurance; and he was about to risk all, by descending into the court through the turret, when the challenge of the sentinel announced the approach of some one, and in the next moment the Governor entered the room, his pale features flushed with anger, and his lip quivering with ill-subdued rage.

“Monsieur de Blenau!” said he, in a tone that he had never before presumed to use towards his wealthy prisoner, “here is something wrong. There has been a woman in the prison to-night, passing for that rascal Woodman’s daughter: and I am given to understand, that she has brought either letter or message to you. But I will ascertain the truth—By Heaven! I will ascertain the truth!”

“Have you detained her, then?” exclaimed De Blenau, losing all caution in his fears for Pauline.

“Oh, ho! Monsieur le Comte,” said the Governor, fixing on him his keen and angry eye; “then you do know that she has been here? But do you know, Sir, that it may cost me my head?”

“Very possibly, if you tell any body,” replied De Blenau; who by this time had recovered his self-possession, and had, upon reconsideration, drawn from the Governor’s speech a different conclusion from that which he had formed at first; feeling sure, that if Pauline had not escaped, his anger would have taken a calmer form. “Listen to me, Sir Governor,” continued he firmly, after having determined in his own mind the line of conduct which he ought to pursue: “let us deal straightforwardly towards each other, and like friends as we have hitherto done. We are both in some degree in each other’s power. On your part, do not attempt to entrap me into any acknowledgment, and I will show you that I will not make use of any advantage you may have given me——”

“I do not understand your meaning, Sir,” cried the Governor, still angrily: “I have given you no advantage. By Heaven! I will have the apartment searched;—ay, Sir, and your person too.”

“Will you so?” replied De Blenau, coolly drawing from his bosom the Queen’s billet, and approaching the edge to the lamp so that it caught fire. The Governor started forward to seize it; but the strong arm of the Count held him at a distance, till the few lines the Queen had written were irretrievably destroyed; and then freeing him from his grasp, he pointed to a chair, saying, “Now, Monsieur le Gouverneur, sit down and listen to a few words of common sense.” The Governor placed himself in the chair with a look of bitter malignity; but this softened down gradually into an expression of thoughtful cunning, as De Blenau proceeded—“Thus stands the case,” said the Count; “I was committed to your charge, I think, with positive orders not to allow me communication with any person whatsoever—was it not so?” The Governor assented: “It so happened, however,” continued the Count with a smile, “that at our very first interview, you conceived a friendship for me of the most liberal and disinterested nature,” (the Governor bit his lip,) “a sort of love at first sight; and, for the sake of my accommodation, you not only broke through the positive commands of the Cardinal Prime Minister, in suffering me once to have communication with another person, but allowed such to take place at all times, according to my pleasure; and also took especial pains to procure the attendance of the person I wished, paying him with my money, for which, and other excellent purposes, you have, within the space of six days, received from me upwards of one thousand crowns.”

The Governor winced most desperately; and fully convinced, that a tale so told, would readily convey his head under the axe of the executioner, if it reached the ears of Richelieu, he cursed himself for a fool, De Blenau for a knave, and Philip the woodman for something between the two; most devoutly wishing both the others at the Devil, so he could slip his own neck out of the halter.

De Blenau, without much skill in reading the mind’s construction by the face, easily divined what was passing in his companion’s bosom; and perceiving him to be much in the situation of a lame dog, he resolved still to apply the lash a little, before he helped him over the stile. “Well, Sir Governor,” continued he; “now we will suppose, as a mere hypothesis to reason upon, that, through this very liberty which your disinterested kindness has allowed me, I have received those communications from without, which it was the Cardinal’s great object to prevent. How ought you to act under such circumstances? Ought you to go to the stern, unrelenting Richelieu, and say to him,—‘May it please your Eminence, I have intentionally and wilfully broken through every order you gave me—I have taken the utmost pains that they should not be observed; and I have so far succeeded in thwarting your designs, that Monsieur de Blenau, from whom I have received one thousand crowns, and from whom I expect a thousand more the moment he is liberated—I say, that this good friend of mine, and your enemy, has gained all the information which you wished to prevent,'—This would be a pretty confession of faith!”

De Blenau paused, and the Governor bit his lip; but after a moment, he looked the Count full in the face, and replied, “Perhaps it might be the best way.”

De Blenau, however, was not to be deceived; he saw terror in the deadly hue of the Governor’s pale cheek, and the anxious rolling of his sunken eye, and he went on—“Perhaps it might be the best way—to have your head struck off without delay; for what would your confession avail the Cardinal now, after the mischief is done?—Would it not be better to say to yourself,—‘Here is a young nobleman, whom I believe to be innocent—for whom I have a regard—whom I have served already, and who is both willing and able to reward any one who does serve him; and who, lastly, will never betray me, let happen what will. Under these circumstances, should I not be a fool of the first water, to inquire into a matter, the truth of which I am very unlikely to discover, and which, if I do, it will be my duty to disclose: whereas, standing as the affair does now, without my knowledge in the least, my ignorance makes my innocence, and I betray no one. Even supposing that the whole be found out, I am no worse than I was before, for the story can but be told at last; while, if the Count be liberated, which most likely he will, instead of losing my office, or my head, I shall gain a thousand crowns to indemnify me for all the trouble I have had, and shall ensure his friendship for life.’ Now, Monsieur le Gouverneur, this is what you ought to say to yourself. In my opinion, the strength of argument is all on one side. Even if there were any thing to know, you would be a fool to investigate it, where you must of necessity be your own accuser; where all is to be lost, and nothing can be gained.”

“You argue well, Monsieur de Blenau,” answered the Governor, thoughtfully; “and your reasoning would be convincing, if it extended to all the circumstances of the case. But you do not know one half;—you do not know, that Chavigni, from whose eyes nothing seems hidden, knew of this girl’s coming, and sent me an order to detain her, which that sottish fool the Porter never gave me till she had escaped—How am I to get over that, pray?”

“Then, positively, she has escaped?” demanded De Blenau.

“Yes, yes, she has escaped!” replied the Governor pettishly: “you seem to consider nothing but her; but, let me tell you, Monsieur de Blenau, that you are fully as much concerned as I am, for if they discover that she has got in, you will have a touch of the peine forte et dure, to make you confess who she is, and what she came for.”

“Truly, I know not what can be done,” answered the Count. “Chavigni seems to know all about it.”

“No, no! he does not know all,” replied the Governor; “for he says here, in his note, that if a young lady dressed in a jupe of red serge, with a black bodice, comes to the gate of the prison, asking any thing concerning the Count de Blenau, we are to detain her: now she never mentioned your name, and, God knows, I heeded not what she was dressed in.”

“Then the matter is very simple,” replied the Count; “no such person as he bade you detain, has been here. This is no matter of honour between man and man, where you are bound to speak your suspicions as well as your knowledge. No person has come to the gate of the prison asking any thing concerning me; and so answer Chavigni.”

“But the Porter, Monsieur de Blenau,” said the officer, anxiously,—“he may peach. All the other dependents on the prison are my own, placed by me, and would turn out were I to lose my office; but this porter was named by the Cardinal himself.—What is to be done with him?”

“Oh! fear not him,” answered De Blenau; “as his negligence was the cause of your not receiving the order in time to render it effectual, your silence will be a favour to him.”

“True! true!” cried the Governor, rubbing his hands with all the rapture of a man suddenly relieved from a mortal embarrassment: “True! true! I’ll go and bully him directly—I’ll threaten to inform the Cardinal, and Chavigni, and the whole Council; and then—when he begins to fancy that he feels the very rope round his neck—I’ll relent, and be charitable, and agree to conceal his mistake, and to swear that the lady never came.—How will Chavigni know? She will never confess it herself, and at that hour it was too dark for any one to watch her up to the gates.—Morbleu! that will do precisely.”

“I see little or no danger attending upon it,” said the prisoner; “and, at all events, it is a great deal better than conveying your neck into the noose, which you would certainly do by confessing to Richelieu the circumstances as they have occurred.”

“Well, well, we will risk it, at all events,” replied the Governor, who, though not quite free from apprehension respecting the result, had now regained his usual sweet complacency of manner. “But one thing, Monsieur de Blenau, I am sure you will promise me; namely, that this attempt shall never be repeated, even if occasion should occur: and for the rest—with regard to your never betraying me, and other promises which your words imply, I will trust to your honour.”

De Blenau readily agreed to what the Governor required, and repeated his promises never to disclose any thing that had occurred, and to reward his assistance with a thousand crowns, upon being liberated. Mindful of all who served him, he did not forget Philip the woodman; and deeply thankful for the escape of Pauline, was the more anxious to ascertain the fate of one who had so greatly contributed to the success of her enterprise.

“Speak not of him! speak not of him!” exclaimed the Governor, breaking forth into passion at De Blenau’s inquiries. “This same skilful plotter attends upon you no longer. You will suffer some inconvenience for your scheme; but it is your fault, not mine, and you must put up with it as best you may.”

“That I care not about,” replied De Blenau. “But I insist upon it that he be treated with no severity. Mark me, Monsieur le Gouverneur: if I find that he is ill used, Chavigni shall hear of the whole business. I will risk any thing sooner than see a man suffer from his kindness for me.”

“You paid him well, of course,” said the Governor, drawing up his lip, “and he must take his chance. However, do not alarm yourself for him: he shall be taken care of—only, with your good leave, Seigneur Comte, you and he do not meet again within the walls of the Bastille.—But in the name of Heaven! what clatter is this at the door?” he exclaimed, starting from his chair, at a most unusual noise which proceeded from the staircase.

The Governor, indeed, had good reason to be astonished; for never was there a more strange and inconsistent sound heard within the walls of a prison, than that which saluted their ears. First came the “Qui vive?” of the sentinel; to which a voice roared out, “Le Diable!” “Qui vive?” cried the sentinel again, in a still sharper key. The answer to this was nothing but a clatter, as the Governor had expressed it, such as we might suppose produced by the blowing up of a steam-kitchen: then followed the discharge of the sentinel’s firelock; and then sundry blows given and received upon some hard and sonorous substance, mingled with various oaths, execrations, and expletives then in use amongst the lower classes of his Christian Majesty’s lieges, making altogether a most deafening din.

At this sound the Governor, as little able to conceive whence it originated as De Blenau himself, drew his sword, and throwing open the door, discovered the redoubtable Jacques Chatpilleur, Cuisinier Aubergiste, striding in triumph over the prostrate body of the sentinel, and waving over his head an immense stew-pan, being the weapon with which he had achieved the victory, and through which appeared a small round hole, caused by the ball of the soldier’s firelock. In the mean while was to be seen the sentinel on the ground, his iron morion actually dented by the blows of his adversary, and his face and garments bedabbled, not with blood, indeed, but with the Poulet en blanquette and its white sauce, which had erst been tenant of the stew-pan.

“Victoria! Victoria! Victoria!” shouted the aubergiste, waving his stew-pan; “Twice have I conquered in one night! Can Mieleraye or Bouillon say that? Victoria! Victoria!” But here his triumph received a check; for looking into the unhappy utensil, he suddenly perceived the loss of its contents, which had flown all over the place, the treacherous lid having detached itself during his conflict with the sentinel, and sought safety in flight down the stairs. “Mon Poulet! mon Poulet!” exclaimed he, in a tone of bitter despair, “le nid y est, mais l’oiseau est parti,—the nest is there, but the bird is flown. Helas, mon Poulet! mon pauvre Poulet!” and quitting the body of his prostrate foe, he advanced into the apartment with that sort of zig-zag motion which showed that the thin sinewy shanks which supported his woodcock-shaped upper man, were somewhat affected by a more than usual quantity of the generous grape.

The whole scene was so inexpressibly ludicrous, that De Blenau burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, in which the Governor could not help joining, notwithstanding his indignation at the treatment the sentinel had experienced. Recovering himself, however, he poured forth his wrath upon the aubergiste in no measured terms, demanding how he dared to conduct himself so in the Royal Chateau of the Bastille, and what had become of the Count de Blenau’s supper, adding a few qualificatory epithets, which may as well be omitted.

“Eh bien, Monsieur! Eh bien!” cried the aubergiste, with very little respect for the Governor: “as for the gentleman there, lying on his belly, he ought to have let me in, and not fired his piece at me. He knew me well enough. He might have cried Qui vive? once,—that was well, as it is the etiquette.”

“But why did you not answer him, sacrÉ maraud?” cried the Governor.

“I did answer him,” replied the other, stoutly. “He cried Qui vive? and I answered Le Diable, car le Diable vive toujours. And as for the supper, I have lost it all. Je l’ai perdu entre deux mÂtins. The first was a greedy Norman vagabond, who feeds at my auberge; and while I was out for a minute, he whips me up my matelot d’anguille from out of the casserole, and my dinde piquÉe from the spit, and when I came back five minutes after, there was nothing left but bare bones and empty bottles. Pardie! And now I have bestowed on the head of that varlet a poulet en blanquette that might have comforted the stomach of a King. Oh Dieu! Dieu! mes malheurs ne finiront jamais. Oh! but I forgot,” he continued, “there is still a fricandeau À l’oseille with a cold patÉ, that will do for want of a better.—Monseigneur, votre serviteur,” and he bowed five or six times to De Blenau; “Monsieur le Gouverneur, votre trÈs humble,” and bowing round and round to every one, even to the sentinel, who by this time was beginning to recover his feet, the tipsy aubergiste staggered off, escaping the wrath of the Governor by the promise of the fricandeau, but not, however, without being threatened with punishment on the morrow.