In such dark anticipations and gloomy reflections, as we have mentioned in the end of the last chapter, the Count de Morseiul passed the solitary hours, till a servant appeared to conduct him to the supper table of the governor. Had he not wished to think, indeed, he might have easily found amusement, either in the court below, where a number of the other prisoners were walking, or in the small library of the chÂteau; but he did wish to think, and however sad and sombre the stream of thought might be at that moment, its course only seemed too soon interrupted.

The governor was civil, and even intended to be very affable; but Albert of Morseiul was not of a character to be amused with the anecdotes of a debauched soldier's life; and the only variety which the conversation of Besmaux afforded were tales of the regency of Anne of Austria, which, though they might at any other moment have served to entertain an idle hour, were too light and insignificant to take hold of a mind agitated and writhing like that of the Count.

The governor thought his guest very dull, and, after having made various essays to enliven him, he proposed that they should sit down to play for sums, written upon pieces of paper, which were to be accounted for after the Count's liberation. The young nobleman would have certainly lost the good opinion of Besmaux for ever by declining this proposal, had it not so occurred that two incidents intervened which prevented him from pressing it. The first was the arrival of a large packet of linen and other clothes for the use of the Count; and the governor, who found a real pleasure in the execution of the task of a gaoler, proceeded to examine with his own eyes and hands every separate article which had been sent. It may be supposed that, after the intimation which he had received on the road, the young Count's heart felt no slight agitation and interest during the scrutiny; but if any thing was written in the manner which Riquet had stated, no discovery thereof was made; and, having completely satisfied himself, Besmaux ordered the packet to be carried to the chamber of the Count.

The little excitement thus produced had scarcely worn away, when the great bell was heard to ring, and the officer upon guard appeared to demand the keys. According to the usual form the governor demanded--"For whose admission?"

"For the admission," said the officer, reading from a scrap of paper, "for the admission of Louis de Rohan, called the Chevalier de Rohan."

The governor started up in some surprise--"On what charge?" he demanded.

"For high treason," replied the officer; and Besmaux immediately gave orders for the Chevalier to be brought to his apartments. "Monsieur de Morseiul," he said, "you will be good enough to follow that porte-clef, who will conduct you back to your chamber. Do you feel it cold?--for the King allows firing."

"I have felt it slightly cold," the Count replied, "and of course the state of a prisoner does not tend to warm the heart."

"Give wood to the Count in his chamber," said Besmaux, to one of the turnkeys, who had entered at the same time with the officer on guard; "and now, good night, Count. No word to the prisoner, if you pass him on the stairs!"

The Count rose and departed; and, as the governor had anticipated, met the Chevalier de Rohan at the foot of the stairs. That unfortunate gentleman was guarded by a musketeer on either side, and a man holding a torch preceding him. The moment that his eye fell upon the Count de Morseuil, he stopped, and appeared as if he were about to speak: but an officer who was behind, and, in whom the Count de Morseiul instantly recognised the Marquis of Brissac, major of the King's guard, exclaimed aloud, "Pass on, Monsieur de Rohan!"

The Count, who certainly had no desire to hold any communications with him, merely bowed his head, and followed by the turnkey, passed out into the court. Though Brissac knew him well, he took not the slightest notice of him as he passed, and the Count was conducted to his chamber in the tower of liberty, as it was called, where firing and lights were almost immediately afterwards brought him. On leaving him, however, the turnkey showed, by locking the heavy door without, that the name of the tower had but little real meaning, and the harsh sound of the grating iron fell heavy and painfully upon the Count's ear.

There was, however, the hope before him of receiving some intelligence from his friends without, and as soon as he had made sure that the turnkey was gone for the night, he eagerly opened the packet of clothes that had been sent, and endeavoured, by the means which had been pointed out, to discover any thing which might be written on them. At first he was disappointed, and was beginning to fear that Riquet had been prevented from executing the purpose which he had entertained. At length, however, as he held one of the handkerchiefs before the fire, some slight yellow lines began to appear, grew gradually darker and darker, and assumed the form of letters, words, lines, and sentences. The first thing that was written at the top was in the hand of the valet himself, and contained words of hope and encouragement. It was to the following effect:--

"Fear not; you shall soon be free. The lady has been told of all. The priest has gone safely back to Poitou. No suspicion attaches to any one, and means are taking to do away the evil."

The next sentences were in a different handwriting; and perhaps the young Count might not have been able to recognise whose it was--so different did it seem upon the linen, and in that ink, from the usual writing of ClÉmence,--had not the words been sufficient to show him from whom it proceeded.

"Fear not, dear Albert," the writing went; "I have heard all and grieve, but do not despond. I have been sent for to see one to-morrow morning early, who is all-powerful. She loved me in my childhood; she promised me many things in my youth, which I was too proud to accept; but I will now cast all pride away for the sake of him I love."

A few lines more were written still further down, but as the Count was turning eagerly to read them, numerous sounds were heard from the court below, the clang of soldiers grounding their arms, and voices speaking, and the moment after, various footsteps might be distinguished ascending the staircase which came towards the room. Fearful that he should be discovered, the Count concealed the handkerchief in his bosom; but the steps passed by the door of his apartment, and, immediately after, heavy footfalls were heard in the room above, with voices speaking in sharp and angry tones. Those sounds soon ceased above, however; four or five persons were heard to descend the stairs, and then all became quiet, except that a quick footstep was still heard pacing backwards and forwards in the apartment over head.

"That is the Chevalier de Rohan," thought the Count. "What crime I wonder can that weak libertine have committed, to deserve the rigorous imprisonment to which it seems he is to be subjected?"

With such brief thought, however, he dismissed the subject from his mind, and turned once more to the writing. By this time it had nearly vanished; but being again exposed to the fire it re-appeared, though more faintly than before. Fearful of interruption, the Count turned to the last lines which he had not read. They seemed to him, as far as he could judge, to be written in the hand of the Chevalier d'Evran, whom, to say sooth, in the joys and fears and agitations of the few preceding days, he had nearly forgotten.

"I have just returned to Paris, dear Albert," it said, "having gone down to Poitou to secure evidence, which they would never have suffered to transpire, if some friend of yours had not been upon the spot. I have secured it. Fear not, therefore, for I and your belle ClÉmence are labouring together to set you free."

Oh, human nature, strange and extraordinary state of existence, how many contradictions dost thou contain! Although filled with such good hopes, although containing such proofs of friendship, although conveying such important intelligence, the lines written by the Chevalier d'Evran were not altogether pleasing to the Count de Morseiul, and he felt sensations that he was angry with himself for feeling, but which all his schooling of his own heart could scarcely banish.

"I shall hate myself," he continued, "if I feel thus. Must there ever be some counterbalancing thing in life and in feeling, to poize the bad against the good, and to make us less happy, less wise, less generous than we otherwise might be? Here new sensations have sprung up in my bosom, of a deeper and a finer kind than I ever knew before; and must there come some petty jealousy, some small, low, mean want of confidence, even in those I esteem and love to debase me as much as those other feelings might elevate me? I will think of such things no more; and will only think of Louis with gratitude and affection."

Thus saying, or rather thus thinking, he re-read the lines that had been written by ClÉmence, and found therein a balm and a consolation which healed all the evil of the other. Having done so, his next care was to efface the writing; but that he found by no means difficult, damping the handkerchief in the cruise of water which had been left for him, and which, in a few minutes, left not a vestige of the lines which had been traced for his eye alone. He sat up for some time after this examination, soothed and calmed by the tidings he had received, and certainly far more tranquil in every respect than during the first few hours of his confinement.

The waning of the lights, however, which had been given to him, warned him, at length, that it was time to retire to rest, and after some brief prayers to the Almighty for guidance, protection, and deliverance, he undressed himself, extinguished the lights, and lay down to seek repose; but it was in vain that he did so, for as he lay on the small prison bed which was allotted to him, and gazed round upon the massy walls of the chamber in which he was confined, with the flickering light of the half-extinguished fire flashing from time to time on all the various objects round about, the sensation of imprisonment, of the utter loss of liberty, of being cut off from all correspondence or communication with his fellow-men, of being in the power and at the mercy of others, without any appeal against their will, or any means of deliverance from their hands, came upon him more strongly, more forcibly than ever, and made a heart, not easily bent or affected by any apprehensions, sink with a cold feeling of deep and utter despondency.

Thus passed several hours till, at length, weariness overcame thought, and he obtained sleep towards the morning. He was awakened by the entrance of one of the turnkeys, accompanied by the major of the Bastille; but the tidings which the latter officer brought to the Count de Morseiul were by no means pleasant, or calculated to confirm the hopes that the words of ClÉmence and the Chevalier d'Evran had held out to him.

"I am sorry to tell you, Monsieur de Morseiul," he said, "that the governor last night received orders from Monsieur de Louvois to place you in stricter confinement, and he is, therefore, obliged to say that you can no longer be permitted to quit your chamber. Any thing that can be done, consistent with his duty, to render your confinement less painful to you, shall be done, depend upon it."

The officer was then bowing, as if to retire; but the Count stopped him by asking, "Is there any objection to my inquiring, Sir, whether there is a cause assigned for this new order?"

"In regard to that I am as ignorant as yourself," replied the major. "All I can tell is, that the order was brought by Monsieur de Brissac at the same time that he conveyed hither the Chevalier de Rohan," and, without waiting for any further questions, he quitted the room in haste; and the turnkey, having brought the Count his breakfast, and, as far as possible, arranged the room with some degree of neatness, followed the major and locked the door.

The full horrors of imprisonment now fell upon the Count de Morseiul, and the day wore away without his holding any further intercourse with any human being, except when his dinner and his supper were brought to him by one of the turnkeys. We need not pause upon his sensations, nor describe minutely all the dark and horrible anticipations which rose, like phantoms, to people his solitary chamber. Night came at length, and this night, at least, he slept; for the exhaustion of his corporeal frame, by the intense emotions of his mind, was far greater than that which could have been produced by a day of the most unusual exercise. Day had scarcely dawned on the following morning, however, when he was roused by two of the officers of the prison entering his chamber, and desiring him to rise, as an officer from the King was waiting to convey him to the royal chamber, at the arsenal, where a commission was sitting for the purpose of interrogating him and his accomplices. The Count made no observation, but hastened to do as he was directed; and, as soon as he was dressed, he descended the narrow and tortuous staircase into the great court of the Bastille, where he found the soldiers of the garrison drawn up in arms on either side, together with a number of officers belonging to the staff of the garrison, various turnkeys and other gaolers, and in their hands, evidently as prisoners, the unfortunate Chevalier de Rohan, and an old white-headed man, apparently of seventy years of age, with a shrewd and cunning countenance, more strongly expressive of acuteness than vigour of mind.

Without suffering him to speak with any one, the officers of the prison placed him in file immediately after the Chevalier de Rohan--a gaoler, however, interposing between each of the prisoners and the one that followed;--and thus, between a double row of soldiery, they marched on into the Cour du Gouvernement, as if they were about to be conducted to the house of the governor. When they reached that court, however, they turned at once to the left, mounted a flight of steps leading to a raised terrace which overlooked the water, and then passing onward, approached the grating which separated that court from the gardens of the arsenal.

At the grating appeared a large body of musketeers, commanded by an officer of the name of Jouvelle, who had served under the Count de Morseiul himself, and into his hands the officers of the Bastille delivered their prisoners, who were then marched, under a strong escort, to the arsenal, where the commission was sitting. All the gates of the gardens and of the building itself, the Count remarked, were in the hands of the musketeers of the King, and not another individual was to be seen besides the soldiery, in the gardens usually so thronged with the good citizens of Paris.

Passing through several of the narrow and intricate passages of the building, the three prisoners were placed in a room which seemed to have been destined for a military mess-room; and, while they were kept separate by their guards, an inferior officer was sent out to see whether the commission was ready to proceed. In a few minutes he returned with two officers of the court, who demanded the presence of Louis Chevalier de Rohan.

The interrogation of this prisoner lasted for a great length of time; but, at the end of about an hour and a half, the same officers re-appeared, demanding the presence of Affinius Vandenenden, upon which the old man, whom we have mentioned, rose and followed them out of the room. The Chevalier, however, had not returned with the officers, and during the space of half an hour longer the Count de Morseiul remained in suspense, in regard to what was proceeding. At length the officers once more appeared, and with them the captain of the musketeers, de Jouvelle, who, while the ushers pronounced the name of "Albert Count of Morseiul," passed by the prisoner, as if to speak to one of the soldiers, saying, in a low voice, as he did so, "Be of good cheer, Count; they have said nothing to criminate you."

The Count passed on without reply, and followed the ushers into another chamber at the farther end of the passage, where he found a number of lawyers and counsellors of state assembled as a royal commission, and presided by the well-known La Reynie. The aspect of the room was not that of a court of justice, and it was evident that the commissioners met simply for the purpose of carrying on the preliminary interrogatories. The Count was furnished with a seat, and after a whispering consultation, for a moment, between La Reynie and one of his brethren, the former commenced the interrogation of the Count by assuring him of the clemency and mercy of the King's disposition, and adjuring him to tell, frankly and straight-forwardly, the whole truth, as the only means of clearing his reputation, and re-establishing himself in the royal favour. To this exordium the Count de Morseiul merely replied by an inclination of the head, very well knowing that with some of the gentlemen whom he saw before him it was advisable to be as niggardly of speech as possible. La Reynie then proceeded to ask how long he had been acquainted with the Chevalier de Rohan, and the Count replied that he had known him for many years.

"When did you see him last?" demanded the judge, "and where?"

"In the gardens of Versailles," answered the Count, calmly, "not five minutes before I was myself arrested."

"And upon what occasion," demanded the judge, "did you see him previously?"

"I saw him," replied the Count, "when I visited the Duc de RouvrÉ, at Poitiers, and once also upon the road between Paris and Versailles, about three or four days ago."

"Are you sure that these are the only days that you have seen him?" demanded the judge. "Recollect yourself, Monsieur le Comte. I think you must have forgotten."

"No, I have not," replied the Count. "I have only seen him on these two occasions since I arrived in Paris, and two or three times during my stay at Poitiers."

"Ay, there is the fact," said La Reynie. "You saw him frequently at Poitiers."

"I also saw various blacksmiths, and lackeys, and horse-boys," said the Count, unable to conceive what connection there could exist between any charges against himself and those against the Chevalier de Rohan, who was known to be a zealous Catholic, "and with them, the blacksmiths, lackeys, and horse-boys, I had as much to do as I had with the Chevalier de Rohan, and no more."

"And pray," continued La Reynie, in the same tone, "what private conversations took place between you and the Chevalier at Poitiers? To the best of your recollection repeat the substance thereof."

The Count smiled. "To the best of my recollection, then," he said, "the substance was as follows: 'Good day, Count de Morseiul. Good morning, Monsieur de Rohan. What a beautiful day it is, Monsieur de Morseiul. It is the most charming weather I remember. There is a sad want of rain, Monsieur le Chevalier, and I fear the poor peasantry will suffer. Do you go out with the duke to hunt to-day? I think not, for my horses are tired.' Such, Sir, is the substance of the only private conversations that took place between myself and the Chevalier at Poitiers."

"Was that all, Monsieur de Morseiul?" demanded La Reynie, with tolerable good humour. "Are you sure you have forgot nothing of equal importance?"

"I believe I have not forgot one word," replied the Count, "except that, on one occasion, Monsieur de Rohan said to me, 'Your hat is unlooped, Count:' when, I am afraid, I looped it without thanking him."

"Well, then, now to somewhat longer and more important conversations, my good young gentleman," said La Reynie. "What has passed between you and the Chevalier de Rohan when you have met him since your arrival at the court?"

"Why, Sir," replied the Count, with a grave and somewhat grieved air, "I give you my word that nothing passed between the Chevalier de Rohan and myself which at all affected his Majesty's service, and I would fain, if it were possible, avoid entering into particulars which, if told to every body, might be painful to a gentleman of my acquaintance, who, I trust, may yet clear himself of any serious charge."

"Monsieur le Comte de Morseiul," said the Counsellor Ormesson, "we respect your motives, and have regard to the manner in which you have expressed them; but the Chevalier de Rohan, I am sorry to inform you, stands charged with high treason upon very strong presumptive evidence. There are particular circumstances which induce a belief that you may have had something to do with his schemes. We trust that such is not the case: but it is absolutely necessary that you should clearly and explicitly state the nature of any transactions which may have taken place between you and him, both for your own safety, for his, and out of respect and duty to the King."

"Then, Sir, I have no other choice," replied the Count, "but to yield to your reasons, and to beg that you would put your questions in such a shape that I may answer them distinctly and easily."

"Very well, Monsieur de Morseiul," said La Reynie; "we have always heard that you are a gentleman of honour, who would not prevaricate even to save his own life. Pray inform us what was the nature of the conversation between you and the Chevalier de Rohan, on the morning of the 23d of this month."

"It was a very short one," replied the Count, somewhat surprised to see what accurate information of his proceedings had been obtained. "The Chevalier overtook me as I was going to Versailles, and on that occasion Monsieur de Rohan informed me that he had lost a large sum at the gaming table on the night before, and begged me to lend him a hundred louis, in the hopes of recovering it by the same means. I advised him strongly to abstain from such proceedings, but of course did not refuse to lend him what he asked."

"Then did you lend him the hundred louis on the spot?" demanded La Reynie.

"No," replied the Count; "I told him that I had not such a sum with me, but promised to send it to him at his lodgings in the course of the afternoon, which I did as soon as ever I arrived at Versailles."

"Pray how happened it, Monsieur de Morseiul," demanded Ormesson, "that as you were going to Versailles, and the Chevalier overtook you going thither also; you did not ride on together, as would seem natural for two gentlemen like yourselves?"

"Nay," replied the Count, smiling, "that I think is pressing the matter rather too far, Monsieur. My society might not be pleasant to the Chevalier, or the reverse might be the case; or we might have other business by the way. A thousand circumstances of the same kind might occur."

"Well, then, I will put the question straightforwardly and at once," said Ormesson. "Had you, or had you not, any reason to believe that the Chevalier de Rohan was at that time engaged in schemes dangerous to the state?"

"None in the world," replied the Count, "and no such feelings or ideas whatsoever had any share in preventing my riding on with the Chevalier de Rohan."

The Commissioners looked at each other for a moment with an inquiring glance, and then La Reynie placed before the Count a note which was to the following effect:--

"My Dear Count,

"I have received what you sent me, for which I return you many thanks, and I have not the slightest doubt, by your assistance, to be able to accomplish the purpose I have in view.

"Your devoted,

"The Chevalier De Rohan."

"Pray, Monsieur de Morseiul," said the Counsellor, "do you recognise that note?"

"Most assuredly," replied the Count. "I received that note from the Chevalier de Rohan, on the very evening of the day we have just mentioned."

"And pray, what is the interpretation you put upon it?" demanded La Reynie.

"Simply," replied the Count, "that he had received the hundred louis which I sent him, and hoped by employing them at the gaming-table to be enabled to win back the sum that he had lost."

"It seems to me," said the judge, "that the note will very well bear two interpretations, Count, and that supposing a gentleman unfortunate enough to have laid schemes for introducing a foreign enemy into the country, or for causing any of the provinces of the kingdom to revolt, and supposing him, at the same time, to be greatly straightened for money and assistance--it seems to me, I say, that the note before us is just such a one as he would write to a friend who had come to his aid at the moment of need, either by giving him aid of a pecuniary or of any other kind."

"All I can say, Sir," replied the Count, "is that the note before you I received from the Chevalier de Rohan, and that no other interpretation than the one I have given was, or could be, put upon it by me. I knew of no schemes whatsoever against the state, and the Chevalier himself had certainly no other meaning than the one I have assigned. It will be very easy for you, however, gentlemen, to place the note before the Chevalier, and make him explain it himself. Though an unfortunate gentleman, he is still a gentleman of honour, and will tell you the truth. We have had no conversation together upon the subject. We have not even interchanged a word as we came hither, and you can compare his statement with mine."

"Perhaps that may have been done already, Monsieur de Morseiul," said Ormesson, "but at all events we think we may close your examination for to-day. The interrogation may be resumed at a future period, when other things have become manifest; and we have only, at present, to exhort you, on all occasions, to deal frankly and openly with the court."

"Such is always my custom to do, Sir," replied the Count. "I stand before you conscious of my innocence of any crime whatsoever, and, having nothing to conceal, am always ready to state frankly and truly what I know, except when by so doing I may wound or injure others."

Thus saying, he bowed to the Commissioners and retired. At the door of the chamber he found two musketeers waiting for his coming out, and, being placed between them, he was once more conducted back to the Bastille by the same way he had come. He was then led by the turnkeys, who were in waiting to receive him, to the same apartment which he had previously occupied; but before nightfall, it was notified to him that the liberties of the Bastille were restored to him, and he received some slight solace by knowing that he should not, for some time at least, be confined to the solitary discomfort of his own apartment, with no occupation but to stride from one side to the other, or gazing out of the narrow window, endeavour to gain a sight of what was passing in the rue St. Antoine.