HOW ONE MAY PASS CLOSE BY HIS DESTINY WITHOUT
KNOWING IT
When the queen held a levee, it was generally in the evening after
supper; so much Gabriel learned, and was told also that his new post of
captain of the Guards not only allowed but required him to show himself
there. He had no desire to shirk that duty, and his only regret was that
he had to wait twenty-four hours before fulfilling it. We can see that
in zeal and gallantry Monsieur d'Avallon's place was likely to be
worthily filled.
But he had to think about killing those twenty-four hours, one after the
other,--those everlasting hours which separated him from the eagerly
desired moment. This young man, whose joy made him forget his weariness,
and who had as yet hardly seen Paris except on his way from one camp to
another, started to scour the city with Martin-Guerre in search of a
suitable lodging. He had the good luck, for he was in luck that day, to
find vacant the very apartments which had formerly been occupied by his
father, the Comte de Montgommery. He hired them, although they were
somewhat over-fine for a mere captain of the Guards; but he could make
himself easy in that regard by simply writing to his faithful Elyot to
send him some money from Montgommery. He also wrote to his good nurse
Aloyse to come and join him there.
Gabriel's first purpose was thus attained. He was a child no longer now,
but a man who had already proved his manhood, and with whom there must
be a reckoning; to the honorable qualities which he had inherited from
his ancestors he had been able to add some personal renown. Alone and
with no other support than his sword, and no recommendation but his
gallant behavior, he had reached high rank at twenty-four. At last he
might proudly show himself to her whom he loved, as well as to those
whom it was his duty to hate. The latter Aloyse could help him to find;
the former had found him.
Gabriel went to sleep with his heart at rest, and slept long and well.
The next day he had to present himself to Monsieur de Boissy, Grand
Equerry of France, to furnish his proofs of nobility. Monsieur de
Boissy, a man of honor, had been the Comte de Montgommery's friend. He
understood Gabriel's motives for concealing his true title, and gave him
his word that he would keep his secret. In the next place, Monsieur le
Maréchal d'Amville presented Gabriel to his company. Then Gabriel at
once began his duties by visiting and inspecting the State prisons in
Paris,--a painful necessity which it was a part of his functions to
yield to once a month.
He began with the Bastille, and ended with the Châtelet.
The governor handed him his list of prisoners, told him which ones had
died or been transferred or set free, and which were sick, and finally
made them pass in review before him,--a sad review, a mournful
spectacle. He thought his duties were done, when the governor of the
Châtelet called his attention to a page in his register which was
almost blank, and bore only this extraordinary memorandum, which
impressed Gabriel more than all the rest:--
"_No. 21, X.--Secret prisoner. If during the visit of the governor or
the captain of the Guards he makes the least attempt to speak, have him
removed to a deeper and harsher dungeon._"
"Who is this prisoner of such importance? May I know?" Gabriel asked
Monsieur de Salvoison, governor of the Châtelet.
"No one knows who he is," was the reply. "I received him from my
predecessor as he had received him from his. You notice that the date of
his imprisonment is left blank. It must have been during the reign of
François I. that he was brought here. He has undertaken to speak two or
three times, so I am told; but at his first word the governor is bound,
under the severest penalties, to close the door of his cell, and to
remove him at once to a more rigorous dungeon; and this has always been
done. There is now only one dungeon left more severe than that he
occupies, and confinement in that means death. No doubt they desire that
he should finally come to that; but just now the prisoner makes no
attempt to speak. He must be some very dangerous criminal. He is always
in shackles; and his jailer, to guard against any possibility of an
escape, is in and out of his cell every minute."
"But suppose he speaks to the jailer?" said Gabriel.
"Oh, he is a deaf mute, born in the Châtelet, who has never been
outside the walls."
Gabriel shuddered. This man, so completely isolated from the world of
the living, and who yet lived and thought, inspired in his breast a
feeling of compassion mingled with an undefinable dread. What resolution
or compunction, what fear of hell or trust in heaven, could prevent so
wretched a being from dashing out his brain against the walls of his
dungeon? Could it be the thirst for revenge, or some hope of deliverance
that enabled him to retain his hold on life!
Gabriel felt a sort of anxious eagerness to see this man; his heart beat
faster than it had ever done before except when he was on his way to see
Diane. He had visited a hundred other prisoners with no other emotion
than a sort of general compassion for their lot; but the thought of this
poor wretch appealed to him and moved him more than all the others, and
his heart was filled with sorrow when he thought of his tomb-like
existence.
"Let us go to Number 21," he said to the governor with a choking voice.
They went down several damp, black stairways, passed under several
arches which resembled the horrible spirals of Dante's Inferno; at last
the governor said, stopping before an iron door,--
"This is the place. I am not his jailer; he is in the cell, no doubt.
But I have duplicate keys; let us go in."
He opened the door, and they went in, with no light but a lantern, held
by a turnkey. Then Gabriel saw before him a mute and frightful picture,
such as one hardly sees except in the nightmare of delirium.
For walls, nothing but solid rock, black, moss-grown, and noisome; for
this gloomy hole was excavated below the bed of the Seine, and the
water, in times of freshet, filled it half full. On these loathsome
walls were crawling slimy things; and the icy air was broken by no sound
except that made by the regular, dull falling of a drop of water from
the hideous arch. A little less alive than the drop of water, a little
more alive than the almost motionless slugs, two beings that had been
human were dragging out their existence there, one guarding the other,
both dumb and awe-inspiring.
The jailer, a sort of idiot, a dull-eyed giant, with a face of deathlike
pallor, was standing in the shadow, gazing stupidly at the prisoner, who
was lying in the corner on a pallet of straw, shackled hand and foot to
a chain riveted to the wall. He was an old man, with a long white beard
and white hair. When they entered he seemed to be sleeping, and did not
stir; he might have been taken for a corpse or a statue.
But suddenly he sat up and opened his eyes, and his gaze met Gabriel's.
He was forbidden to speak; but this terrible and piercing gaze spoke for
him. Gabriel was fascinated by it, and could not remove his eyes. The
governor and turnkey overhauled all the corners of the dungeon. He,
Gabriel, rooted to the spot, neither moved forward nor back, but stood
there transfixed by those blazing eyes; he could not get away from them,
and at the same time a thousand confused and unutterable thoughts were
whirling through his brain.
The prisoner seemed no longer to view his visitor with mere
indifference, and there was a moment when he made a motion and opened
his lips as if to speak; but the governor having turned back toward
them, he remembered in time the rule laid down for him, and his lips
spoke only by a bitter smile. He closed his eyes once more, and relapsed
into his corpse-like immobility.
"Oh, let us go out!" said Gabriel to the governor. "For God's sake, let
us go out! I must have fresh air and see the sunlight again."
He did not recover his tranquillity and his life, so to speak, until he
found himself once more in the throng and tumult of the street. And even
then the gloomy vision he had seen remained in his mind and pursued him
the livelong day, as he walked thoughtfully hither and thither through
the streets.
Something seemed to tell him that the fate of this wretched captive was
connected with his own, and that a great crisis in his life was
impending. Worn out at last by these mysteriously recurring
presentiments, he directed his steps as the day drew to its close toward
the lists of the Tournelles. The day's jousting, in which Gabriel had
not cared to take part, was just coming to an end. Gabriel could see
Diane, and she saw him; and this interchange of glances at once put his
gloomy thoughts to flight as the rays of the sun disperse the clouds.
Gabriel forgot the unfortunate prisoner whom he had seen that day, to
give himself up entirely to thoughts of the lovely maiden he was to see
again in the evening.