Gabrielle had found a temporary asylum at the house of Robert Lindet,
the lawyer. Robert lived in a small villa, with his brother Peter,
on the side of the road to Brionne and Rouen. The house stood back
from the dusty highway, with a long strip of garden before it, and a
high wall completely shutting it off from the road. A row of trees
occupied one side of the garden, ending in a green ivy-covered
arbour, in which no one ever sat, as it occupied an angle in the high
walls, and commanded no view, and was by its position excluded from
air and light.
The garden was poor. Two little patches of flowers--larkspur and
escholtzia and white lilies--were nearly the only ones that grew in
it; the two former sowed themselves, and the latter remained where
it had been planted in Robert’s youth. The rest of the garden was
turf. On it stood a hutch of white rabbits with black noses, which
were constantly escaping over the garden and destroying the flowers.
The house front consisted of two parts, the portion occupied by the
lawyer and his brother, and that given over to the cook and kitchen,
which latter portion was an incongruous adjunct to the trim little
house. The kitchen was on the ground-floor, and a ladder staircase in
the open air gave access to the bedroom above.
The house--little altered--is at present the abode of the Chaplain to
the Convent of the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament.
The lower rooms of the house being turned into offices, the brothers
were wont, in cold weather, to sit over the fire in the kitchen,
where Gabrielle presided.
Gabrielle was not happy. That last piercing cry of her protectress
and friend, Madame Berthier, had entered her heart, and stuck there
like a barbed arrow. As she lay awake at night, she thought of the
huge prison, dark and cold, down whose passages no sunbeams streamed,
and of the poor lady alone there, in solitude and despair. During
the day she thought of her,--of the cold she must feel in her cell,
of the deprivation of scenes of beauty and life. ‘I ought to do
something for her, but what can I do!’ She asked those who knew
anything about Paris whether there would be a possibility of her
obtaining admission to the Bastille, to wait upon the prisoner, but
they all replied with a shake of the head.
On March 25th, Etienne Percenez was sitting in the kitchen with the
brothers Lindet, whilst Gabrielle washed dishes and forks and spoons
at the sink in the window.
The conversation had run upon the political movements of the day, the
abuses needing correction, the rights of the people which required
acknowledgment. Gabrielle had listened without much interest, and
the names of Necker, Artois, Sartines, De Brienne, &c., had entered
her ear without attracting her attention, when all at once it was
arrested by a remark of the colporteur:
‘The Bastille and the lettres-de-cachet! Have they been protested
against?’
‘The time has not come,’ said Robert Lindet; ‘our cahiers mention
grievances of which we are personally cognizant. When the
States-general meet, then every nook and cranny of the old _régime_
will be searched and swept out.’
‘What can be more iniquitous than the lettre-de-cachet?’ asked
Percenez; ‘the king gives blank forms for any one to fill in,
and thus lives and liberties are sacrificed without trial.
Saint-Florentin gave away fifty-thousand. What became of these blank
orders of imprisonment? They were matters of traffic; fathers were
shut up by their sons, husbands by their wives; Government clerks,
their mistresses, and the friends of the mistresses,--any pretty
woman of easy virtue inconvenienced by a strait-laced husband or
father or mother, with a little civility, flattery, money, could get
these terrible orders by which to bury those they desired to get rid
of.’
‘And sometimes,’ said Robert, ‘the Bastille was an easy payment of a
State debt. The Baron and Baroness Beausoleil spent their fortune and
their time in opening valuable mines. When all their wealth was gone,
they applied to Richelieu for payment, or at least a recognition of
their services. The recognition was accorded them. They were shut up
for life in the Bastille, apart from one another, and separated for
ever from their children!’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Peter; ‘this is too bad. You know that the king had
abolished these lettres-de-cachet. Why do you rake up old grievances
which are long dead?’
‘Dead grievances!’ said Stephen Percenez; ‘you forget, Monsieur
Pierre, they are only asleep, not dead. It is true Louis XVI has
forbidden the incarceration of any one at the request of their
families, without a well-grounded reason. But who is to be judge
of the soundness of the reason? And who forced him to decree
that?--Madame Legros.’
‘Madame Legros!’ said Gabrielle, coming forward; ‘tell me, who was
she?’
‘Did you never hear of Latude?’ asked Percenez.
‘Never,’ answered Gabrielle. ‘Was he a prisoner?’
‘Yes, for thirty-four years in Bicêtre and the Bastille, thrown into
the worst dungeons, by the spite of a woman--a harlot, Madame de
Pompadour. He wrote his appeals for mercy, and pardon for crimes he
had never committed, on rags, in his own blood; then they buried him
in holes underground without light, where he spent long years in
domesticating rats. Once a memorial addressed to some philanthropist
or other--one memorial out of a hundred, was lost by a drunken
jailer--a woman picked it up. That woman was a poor mercer, who sat
stitching in her shop door. She picked up the fluttering sheet and
read it, and resolved to liberate the miserable sufferer.’
Gabrielle bent forward, with her eyes fixed on the speaker.
‘What did she do?’ she asked, eagerly.
‘What did she not do?’ returned Étienne Percenez; ‘she worried every
great man to whom she could obtain access with her story of the
wrongs of Latude, and his sufferings in prison. She consecrated her
life to his. All kinds of misfortune beset her, but she held firmly
to her cause. Her husband remonstrated with her--he called her
enthusiasm folly, for her business failed, as well it might, when
her time was spent in seeking audiences with great Lords and high
Churchmen, and when her attention was fixed on something other than
caps and gowns. Her father died, then her mother. Slanderous tales
were raised about her: it was asserted that she was the mistress
of the prisoner, for whose liberation she laboured, and sacrificed
all. The police threatened her; but she remained invincible. The
story of Latude’s sufferings and of Madame Legros’ self-devotion
spread through France, whispered from one to another. In the depths
of winter, on foot, far advanced in pregnancy, the brave woman set
out for Versailles, resolved to appeal at head-quarters. She found
a femme de chambre inclined to take her memorial to the queen, but
an abbé passing snatched it from her hand, and tore it up, bidding
her not attempt to meddle. Cardinal de Rohan--he, you know, who
was concerned in the affair of the necklace--was good-natured, and
he endeavoured to move Louis XVI to pardon Latude--pardon him for
what? for having in some way caused annoyance to his grandfather’s
mistress; in what way?--nobody knows. Three times the king refused to
pardon and liberate this man whose life had been wasted in a prison.
At last, in 1784, Madame Legros had so worked on public opinion, that
the king was forced to release him. You see what woman can do!’
Gabrielle raised her eyes and hands to heaven.
‘May God enable me to do the same for Madame Berthier!’ she cried.
‘There now, Étienne,’ said Robert, with a curl of the lip; ‘you have
applied a match to a barrel of gunpowder.’
‘Ah! if it were to blow down the walls of the Bastille!’ said the
pedlar, shaking his brown head.
‘Dear friend,’ said the girl, laying her hand on Percenez’ arm; ‘she
who saved me in my hour of deepest need, she who stood between me and
ruin, is now in that awful place. Her last cry was to me to save
her. Tell me, what can I do?’
‘Nothing, absolutely nothing, except washing up dishes,’ answered
Robert Lindet.
She did not attend to him, but looked straight into Percenez’ eyes.
The girl was so beautiful, so earnest and enthusiastic, that the
colporteur gazed on her with admiration, and did not answer.
‘I must do something,’ she proceeded to say; ‘I hear her voice
calling me, night and day. That cry of “Gabrielle, save me!” haunts
me. I am tortured with inactivity.’
‘My good girl,’ Robert observed, ‘there is not the slightest occasion
for inactivity. There are the floors to be scoured, and the cobwebs
to be brushed away, and the dishes to be washed.’
‘Good, kind master!’ cried the girl, turning to him; ‘you have
received me when I was homeless. But did I not tell you that I could
not remain in your service? I warned you that I had something to do
that must be done----’
‘Fudge!’ said the lawyer. ‘You women are highflown, crazy creatures.
You can do nothing for Madame Berthier; content yourself with the
certainty of that, and stick to your kitchen-work, or, if you like it
better, feed the rabbits.’
Percenez smiled. A smile on his rugged brown countenance was rare,
and it had meaning whenever it appeared.
‘Excuse me, M. Lindet,’ he said; ‘I have faith in enthusiasm. Before
that every barrier goes down. It is absolutely unconquerable.’
‘Enthusiasm is faith run to extravagance,’ answered the lawyer.
‘Enthusiasm is good for a dash, but it is not fit for continuous
work. Enthusiasm would level a mountain, but it would never
reconstruct it.’
‘Hark!’ exclaimed Peter, holding up his finger.
The others were silent and listened. They heard the bells of S. Cross
pealing merrily.
‘What can be the occasion?’ asked Percenez.
Peter took his pipe out of his mouth, and walked slowly into the
garden. Robert and Stephen followed him. From the high stone wall the
clamour of the bells was echoed noisily.
‘It is very odd,’ said Robert; ‘what can be the reason?’
At that moment the garden-door opened, and M. Lamy, one of the
curates (_vicaires_) of Bernay, rushed in, his face beaming with
pleasure.
‘Well! what is the news?’ asked Percenez.
‘The best, the very best of news,’ answered the priest. ‘M. Thomas
Lindet is elected delegate of the clergy to the Estates-general.’
‘An enthusiast,’ said Robert, with a smile aside to Percenez.
‘Ah! M. Robert, and it is just his enthusiasm which has taken him
ahead of all the rest of the class, and turned him into a delegate.’
Whilst Robert and Peter talked with M. Lamy, the little brown
colporteur turned back to the kitchen, and said to Gabrielle: ‘Well,
what about your protectress?’
‘My friend,’ answered Gabrielle, earnestly and vehemently; ‘I shall
go to Paris, if I go on foot, and I shall see what can be done. I
will implore the queen on my knees to use her influence to obtain the
release of Madame Berthier.’
‘You forget; that lady is not shut up as a political offender, but
because she is insane.’
‘I will do what I can,’ answered the girl, simply. ‘She has no one
else to assist her--no one else to speak for her.’
‘You are only a peasant-girl.’
‘Well! what was Madame Legros?’
‘Are you resolved?’
She put her hand on her heart.
‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I have no rest here. I shall have no rest
till I have done my utmost.’
‘Paris is a dangerous place for a young and pretty maiden.’
‘Ah! Monsieur Étienne, the good God, who raised up a protectress for
me in my need before, will deliver me in any future peril.’
‘What have you to live upon in Paris?’
‘I do not know.’
‘You must bear in mind that great distress exists there, that money
is scarce and provisions are dear.’
‘God will provide.’
‘He will provide if He calls you there, not otherwise.’
‘Is it not His call that I hear now?’ asked the girl, her face
brightening with enthusiasm. ‘My friend, my father’s friend, listen
to me. There is a something within me, I cannot tell you what it is,
which draws me from this place after my dear, unfortunate madame.
Only yesterday I was walking in the wood above La Couture. I went to
pray at a crucifix which I well know, for it was there that M. Lindet
first stood my champion against him whom I will not name. I prayed
there--I cannot tell you for how long, and I asked for a sign--a
sign what I was to do.’ She paused timidly, dropped her eyes, and
continued in a whisper: ‘Whilst I was on my knees, all on an instant
I felt something leap upon my shoulder.’
‘Well, child, what was it?’ asked Percenez with a smile.
‘It was Madame Berthier’s yellow cat, it looked so lean and
neglected, and its yellow dye was nearly worn off it. It knew me, for
it rubbed its head against my cheek.’
‘Nonsense, Gabrielle, do you call _that_ a sign?’
‘Yes, Monsieur Étienne, it was a sign to me. It would not have been
so to anyone else, may be, but I know what that cat was to the poor
lady, I know what she suffers now in being separated from it; and, if
it were only to restore her cat to her, I would walk barefoot all the
way to Paris.’
‘I suspect the only success you will meet with will be that.’
‘Well, and that will be something.’
‘You are a resolute girl.’
‘Monsieur Étienne, I _must_ go.’
‘Why so?’
‘If I did not go, I should die.’
The little brown man looked fixedly at her, and then said:
‘Gabrielle, I have known you from a little girl. I am going to Paris.
Like you, I _must_ go. I am fixed with a desire to see the working
out of this great problem, the States-General. Gabrielle! the French
people are like your Madame Berthier, chained and in prison. I do
not know whether my feeble voice will avail to effect their release.
You do not know whether yours will liberate one individual out of
that great suffering family. Well! we go in hope, vague may be, but
earnest, and resolved to do our best. We shall go together.’
‘What do you say, monsieur?’
‘I will go and visit my sister, Madame Deschwanden, and shall take
you with me. We shall see what takes place.’
‘You will help me to get to Paris?’
‘Yes, I will.’
Miaw! The yellow cat, which had been asleep in a corner, was now wide
awake, and at a bound had reached Gabrielle’s shoulder.
How merrily in Gabrielle’s ear sounded the bells of S. Cross!