THE ESCAPE.
The hope delayed, which maketh the heart sick, had its wearing effect
upon the Count de Morseiul. His countenance showed it in every line;
the florid hue of strong health was beginning to pass away; and one
morning, in taking his usual walk up and down the court of the
Bastille in company with the bluff old English officer we have
mentioned, his companion, after gazing in his face for a moment, as if
something therein had suddenly struck him, said, "You look ill, young
gentleman; what is the matter?"
"How is it possible that I can be otherwise," said the Count,
"confined as I am here, and lingering on from day to day, without any
knowledge of what is passing regarding myself, or of the fate of
friends that I love, or of the condition of all those in whose
happiness I am interested?"
"Poo! you must bear things more lightly," answered the old soldier.
"Why here, you, a youth, a mere boy, have plenty of time before you to
spare a year or two for imprisonment. Think of what a difference there
is between you and me: here am I without a day too much to spare in
life; while to you neither months nor years are any thing. As to your
friends without, too, trouble not your brain about them. The world
would go on just as well without you and I, if we were put out of it
to-morrow; friends would find new friends, sweethearts gain new
lovers, servants betake them to new masters, and the roses would grow,
and the birds would sing, and love, and war, and policy, and the wind
of heaven, would have their course as if nothing had happened. There
might be a few drops in some eyes which would fall like a spring
shower, and be dried up again as soon. However," he added, seeing that
his philosophy was not very much to the taste of the young Count, "you
must live in the world as long as I have done ere you can take such
hard lessons home; and if it be but communication with your friends
without that you want, I should think that might be obtained easily."
"I see not how that is to be done," replied the Count. "If they had
allowed me to have my valet here there would have been no difficulty,
for I do not think that even stone walls would keep in his wit."
"Oh, we can do without him, I dare say," replied the old man. "If you
write me down a note, containing few words, and no treason, doubtless
I can find means, perhaps this very day, of sending it forth to any
one that you will. In my apartment we shall find paper, which I got
not long ago; some sort of ink we will easily manufacture for
ourselves. So, come: that will revive hope a little for you; and
though I cannot promise you an answer, yet perhaps one may be obtained
too. There are old friends of mine that sometimes will drop in to see
me; and what I propose to do, is to give your note to one of the
prisoners I have spoken with, who expects to be liberated to-day or
to-morrow, and direct the answer to be sent by some one who is likely
to come to see me."
The young Count gladly availed himself of this proposal; and the means
of writing having, by one prison resource or another, been obtained,
he wrote a few brief words, detailing the anxiety and pain he
suffered, and begging some immediate information as to the probability
of his obtaining his freedom, and regarding the situation of those
that he loved best. He couched his meaning in language as vague as
possible, and addressed the note to his valet, Jerome Riquet, fearing
to write to Clemence, lest he should by any means draw suspicion and
consequent evil upon her. The old English officer undertook to give
all the necessary directions for its delivery, and when they met again
in the evening, he assured him that the note was gone.
At an early hour on the following morning the Englishman was called
away from him to speak with some one admitted by an order from the
minister; and in about ten minutes after he joined the Count, and
slipped a small piece of folded paper into his hand, saying, in a low
voice, "Do not look at it now, or leave me immediately, for there are
several of these turnkeys about, and we must not create suspicion."
After a few more turns, however, the old man said, "Now, Monsieur de
Morseiul," and the Count hastening to his chamber, opened the note
which was in the handwriting of Riquet.
"I have been obliged," it said, "to keep out of the way, and to change
my shape a dozen times, on account of the business of the Exempt;
but--from what the Count says, and from hearing that Monsieur de
Louvois swore last night by all the gods that he worships, that, on
account of some offence just given, he will bring the Count's head to
the block within a week, as he did that of Monsieur de Rohan--a bold
stroke will be struck to-day. The Count will be set at liberty about
two o'clock, and the moment he is at liberty he must neither go to
King nor ministers, nor to his own house, either in Paris or at
Versailles, but to the little inn called the Golden Cock, in the Rue
du Faubourg St. Antoine, call himself Monsieur du Sac, and ask for the
horse his servant brought. Having got it, let him ride on for Poitou
as fast as he can go. He will meet friends by the way."
This was all that the note contained, and what was the bold stroke
that Riquet alluded to the Count could not divine. He judged, indeed,
that perhaps it was quite as well he should be ignorant of the facts;
and after having impressed all the directions contained in the note
upon his mind, he destroyed the paper, and was preparing to go down
again into the court.
It so happened, however, that he paused for a moment, and took up one
of the books which he was still reading, when an officer, who was
called the Major of the Bastille, entered the room, and summoned him
to the presence of the governor. The Count immediately followed, and
passing through the gate into the Court of Government, he found
Besmaux waiting in the corps de garde, with a blithe and smiling
countenance.
"Good morning, Monsieur de Morseiul," he said; "I have got some good
news for you, which perhaps you do not expect."
He fixed his eyes scrutinisingly upon the Count's face, but all was
calm. "Here is an order for your liberation," he continued, "which,
doubtless, you will be glad to hear."
"Most glad," exclaimed the Count; "for, to say the truth, I am growing
both sick and weary of this imprisonment, especially as I know that I
have done nothing to deserve it."
"That is better than being imprisoned knowing you have done something
to deserve it," said Besmaux. "However, here is the order; and though
it is not exactly in accurate form, I must obey, I suppose, and set
you at liberty, for here is the King's handwriting in every line."
"That you must judge of yourself, Monsieur de Besmaux," replied the
Count. "But I hope, of course, that you will not detain me any longer
than is necessary."
"No, no," said Besmaux; "I must obey the order, for it is in the
King's hand distinctly. Here are all the things that were upon your
person, Monsieur de Morseiul. Be so good as to break the seal
yourself, examine them, and give me an acknowledgment--as is usual
here--that they have been returned to you. There is the ordinary form;
you have nothing to do but to sign it."
The Count did as he was required to do, and the governor then restored
to him his sword, saying, "There is your sword, Monsieur le Comte. It
is customary to give some little acknowledgment to the turnkeys if you
think fit; and now, Monsieur le Comte, you are free. Will you do me
the honour of supping with me again to-night?"
"I fear not to-night, Monsieur de Besmaux; some other time I will have
that pleasure. But, of course, after this unexpected and sudden
enlargement, there is much to be done."
"Of course," replied the governor; "you will have to thank the King,
and Monsieur de Louvois, and all that. Some other time then be it. It
is strange they have sent no carriage or horse for you. Perhaps you
would like to wait till they arrive?"
"Oh, no," replied the Count. "Freedom before every thing, Monsieur de
Besmaux. By your permission I will send for the apparel I have left in
my chamber. But now, to set my foot beyond the drawbridge is my great
ambition."
"We will conduct you so far," replied Besmaux, and led the way towards
the gate. The drawbridge was lowered, the gates opened, and the Count,
distributing the greater part of the money which had been restored to
him amongst the turnkeys, turned and took leave of the governor, and
issued forth from the Bastille. He remarked, however, that Besmaux,
with the major of the prison, and two or three others, remained upon
the bridge, as if they felt some suspicion, and were watching his
farther proceedings. He, accordingly, rendered his pace somewhat slow,
and turned towards his own hotel in Paris, while two or three boys,
who hung about the gates of the Bastille, followed, importunately
looking up in his face. He passed along two streets before he could
get rid of them, but then, suddenly turning up one of the narrow lanes
of the city, he made the best of his way to the little inn, or rather
public house, which Jerome Riquet had pointed out to him in his
letter, where a bright golden cock, somewhat larger than life, stood
out into the street from a pole thrust into the front of the house.
Before he turned in he looked down the street towards the Bastille,
but saw no cause for suspicion, and entered the narrow entrance. As
was not uncommon in such houses at that time, no door on either hand
gave admission to the rooms of the inn till the visiter had threaded
half way through the small ill-lighted passage. At length, however,
doors appeared, and the sound of a footstep instantly called out a
stout, jovial-looking personage, with a considerable nose and
abundance of cheek and stomach, who, without saying any thing, merely
planted himself directly in the Count's way.
"Are you the landlord?" demanded the Count.
"Yes, Sir," replied the cabaretier, much more laconically than might
have been expected from his appearance. "Who are you?"
"I am Monsieur du Sac," replied the Count.
"Oh, oh!" cried the host, laying his forefinger on the side of his
face. "If you are Monsieur du Sac, your horse will be ready in a
crack. But you had better come into the stable; there are people
drinking in the hall."
The Count followed him without saying any more, and found three horses
standing ready saddled, and wanting only the girths tightened, and the
bridles in their mouths. The centre one he instantly recognised as one
of his own finest horses, famous for its great strength and courage.
The other two were powerful animals, but of a different breed; and the
Count was somewhat surprised when the landlord ordered a stable boy,
who was found waiting, to make haste and girth them all up. The boy
began with the farther horse; but the landlord then exclaimed, "No,
no, the gentleman's first, the others will do after;" and in a moment
the Count's horse was ready to set out.
"Better go by the back gate, Sir," said the host; "then if you follow
round by the gardens of the convent of St. Mary, up the little lane to
the left, you will come into the road again, where all is clear.
Where's the bottle, boy, I told you to have ready? Monsieur du Sac
will want a draught before he goes." A large bottle was instantly
produced from a nook in the stable, and a tumbler full of excellent
wine poured out. The Count took it, and drank, for excitement had made
him thirsty, and he might well want that support, which the juice of
the grape or any other thing could afford, when he reflected that the
die was now cast; that he had been liberated from prison, as he could
not doubt by some counterfeit order; and that he was flying from the
court of France, certainly never to return, unless it were as a
captive brought back probably to death.
The blow being struck, however, he was not a man to feel regret or
hesitation, and there was something in the sensation of being at
liberty, of having cast off the dark load of imprisonment, which was
in itself inspiring. He sprang upon his horse then with joyful speed,
cast the landlord one of the few gold pieces that remained in his
purse, and while the boy held open the back gates of the inn court, he
rode out once more free to turn his steps whithersoever he would. That
part of the city was not unknown to him, and passing round the
gardens, and through the narrow lanes which at that time were
intermingled with the Faubourg St. Antoine, he entered the high road
again just where the town ended, and the country began; and putting
his horse into a quick pace, made the best of his way onward toward
Poitou.
As he now went forth he looked not back, and he had gone on for five
or six miles, when the belief that he heard the feet of horses
following fast made him pause and turn. He was not mistaken in the
supposition. There were two horsemen on the road, about five or six
hundred yards behind him; but they slackened their pace as soon as he
paused; and remembering the words written by Jerome Riquet, that he
would find friends upon the road, he thought it better not to inquire
into the matter any further, but make the most of his time, and go on.
He thus proceeded without drawing a rein for about five and thirty
miles, the men who were behind him still keeping him in sight, but
never approaching nearer than a certain distance.
The road which he had chosen was that of Orleans, though not the most
direct; but by taking it, he avoided all that part of the country
through which he was most likely to be pursued if his flight were
speedily discovered. At length, in the neighbourhood of the little
town of Angerville, a man appeared on horseback at the turning of one
of the roads. He was evidently waiting for some one, and rode up to
the Count as soon as ever he appeared, saying merely, "Monsieur du
Sac."
"The same," replied the Count; and the man immediately said, "This
way, then, Sir."
The Count followed without any reply, and the man rode on at a quick
pace for the distance of fully three miles further. The horsemen
turned as the Count had turned, but the road had become tortuous, and
they were soon lost to his sight. At length, however, the high stone
walls, overtopped with trees, and partly covered with ivy, which
usually surrounded the park of an old French chateau, appeared, and
making a circuit round three sides of this enclosure, the Count and
his guide came suddenly to the large iron gates, which gave admission
to a paved court leading to another set of gates, with a green
esplanade and a terrace above; while the whole was crowned by a heavy
mass of stonework, referable to no sort of architecture but itself.
Round these courts were various small buildings, scarcely fitted
indeed for human habitation, but appropriated to gardeners and
gatekeepers, and other personages of the kind; and from one of these,
as soon as the Count appeared, instantly rushed forth Jerome Riquet
himself, kissing his master's hand with sincere joy and affection,
which was not at all decreased by a consciousness that his liberation
had been effected by the skill, genius, and intrigue of the said
Jerome Riquet himself.
"Dismount, my Lord, in all safety," he said; "we have taken measures
to insure that you should not be traced. Refreshments of every kind
are ready for you; and if you so please, you can take a comfortable
night's repose before you go on."
"That were scarcely prudent, Riquet," replied the Count; "but I will
at all events pause for a time, and you can tell me all that has
happened. First, whose dwelling is this?"
"The house of good Monsieur Perault at Angerville," replied the valet.
"He has been dead for about two months, and his old maitre d'hotel,
being a friend of mine, and still in the family, gave me the keys of
the chateau to be your first resting place."
On entering the chateau, Albert of Morseiul found it completely
thronged with his own servants; and the joyful faces that crowded
round, some in smiles and some in tears, to see their young lord
liberated, was not a little sweet to his heart. Some balm, indeed, was
necessary to heal old wounds, before new ones were inflicted; and,
though Riquet moved through the assembled attendants with the
conscious dignity of one who had conferred the benefit in which they
rejoiced, yet he hastened to lead his young lord on, and to have the
room cleared, having much indeed to tell. His tale was painful to the
Count in many respects; but, being given by snatches, as the various
questions of his master elicited one fact after another, we will
attempt to put it in more continuous form, and somewhat shorter
language, taking it up at events which, though long past, were now
first explained.
From an accidental reference to the Count's journey from Morseiul to
Poitiers, Riquet was led to declare the whole facts in regard to the
commission which had been given by the King to Pelisson and St. Helie.
The insatiable spirit of curiosity by which Maitre Jerome was
possessed, never let him rest till he had made the unhappy Cure of
Guadrieul declare, by a man[oe]uvre before related, what was in the
sheepskin bag he carried; and, as soon as the valet heard that it was
a commission from the King, his curiosity was still more strongly
excited to ascertain the precise contents. For the purpose of so
doing, he attached himself firmly to the Cure during the rest of the
evening, made him smoke manifold pipes, induced him to eat every
promotive of drinking that he could lay his hands upon, plied him with
wine, and then when half besotted, ventured to insinuate a wish to
peep into the bag. The Cure, however, was firm to his trust even in
the midst of drunkenness; he would peep into the bag with curious
longings himself, but he would allow no one else to do so, and Riquet
had no resource but to finish what he had so well commenced by a
bottle of heady Burgundy in addition, which left the poor priest but
strength enough to roll away to his chamber, and, conscious that he
was burthened with matters which he was incompetent to defend, to lock
the door tight behind him before he sunk insensible on his bed. He
forgot, however, one thing, which it is as well for every one to
remember; namely, that chambers have windows as well as doors; and
Jerome Riquet, whose genius for running along house gutters was not
less than his other high qualities, found not the slightest difficulty
of effecting an entrance, and spending three or four hours in the
examination of the sheepskin bag and its contents. With as much skill
as if he had been brought up in the French post-office of that day, he
opened the royal packet without even breaking the seals, and only
inflicting a very slight and accidental tear on one part of the
envelope, which the keen eyes of Pelisson had afterwards discovered.
As soon as he saw the nature of the King's commission, Riquet,--who
was no friend to persecution of any kind, and who well knew that all
his master's plans would be frustrated, and the whole province of
Poitou thrown into confusion if such a commission were opened on the
first assembling of the states,--determined to do away with it
altogether, and substitute an old pack of cards which he happened to
have in his valise in place of that important document. He then
proceeded to examine minutely and accurately the contents of the
Cure's trunk mail, and more from a species of jocose malice than any
thing else, he tore off a piece of the King's commission which could
do no harm to any one, and folded it round the old tobacco box, which
he had found wrapped up in a piece of paper very similar amongst the
goods and chattels of the priest.
Besides this adventure, he had various others to detail to the Count,
with the most important of which: namely, his interview with the King
and Louvois at Versailles, the reader is already acquainted. But he
went on from that point to relate, that, lingering about in the
neighbourhood of the King's apartments, he had heard the order for his
master's arrest given to Monsieur de Cantal. He flew home with all
speed, but on arriving at the Count's hotel found that he had already
gone to the palace, and that his arrest was certain.
His next question to himself was how he might best serve him under
such circumstances; and, habituated from the very infancy of his
valethood to travesty himself in all sorts of disguises, he determined
instantly on assuming the character of an Exempt of one of the courts
of law, as affording the greatest probability of answering his
purpose. He felt a degree of enjoyment and excitement in every species
of trick of the kind which carried him through, when the least
timidity or hesitation would have frustrated his whole plans. The fact
is, that although it may seem a contradiction in terms, yet Maitre
Jerome was never so much in his own character as when he was
personating somebody else.
The result of his acting on this occasion we already know, as far as
the Count was concerned; but the moment that he had seen him lodged in
the Bastille, the valet, calculating that his frolic might render
Versailles a dangerous neighbourhood, retired to the Count's hotel in
Paris, where a part of his apparel was still to be found, compounded
rapidly the sympathetic ink from one of the many receipts stored up in
his brain, and then flew with a handkerchief, properly prepared, to
Clemence de Marly, whom he found alone with the Chevalier d'Evran. As
his master had not made him acquainted with the occasional feelings of
jealousy which he had experienced towards that gentleman, Jerome
believed he had fallen upon the two persons from whom, out of all the
world, his master would be most delighted to hear. The whole facts of
the Count's arrest then were detailed and discussed, and the words
written, which, as we have seen, were received by Albert of Morseuil
in prison.
Afraid to go back to Versailles, Riquet hastened away into Poitou
leaving to Clemence de Marly and the Chevalier d'Evran the task of
liberating his lord, of which they seemed to entertain considerable
hopes. On his return, however, he found, first, that all his
fellow-servants having been faithful to him, the investigations
regarding the appearance of the Exempt had ended in nothing being
discovered, except that somebody had profanely personated one of those
awful personages; and, secondly, that the Count was not only still in
durance, but that little, if any, progress had been made towards
effecting his liberation. The Duc de Rouvre, who seemed to be restored
to the King's favour, was now a guest at the palace of Versailles:
with Clemence de Marly the valet could not obtain an interview, though
he daily saw her in company with the Chevalier d'Evran, and the report
began to be revived that the King intended to bestow her hand upon
that gentleman, who was now in exceedingly high favour with the
monarch.
A scheme now took possession of the mind of Riquet, which only
suggested itself in utter despair of any other plan succeeding; and
as, to use his own expression, the very attempt, if frustrated, would
bring his head under the axe, he acknowledged to his lord that he had
hesitated and trembled even while he prepared every thing for its
execution. He went down once more into Poitou; he communicated with
all the friends and most favoured vassals of his master; he obtained
money and means for carrying every part of his scheme into effect, as
soon as his lord should be liberated from the Bastille, and for
securing his escape into Poitou, where a choice of plans remained
before him, of which we shall have to speak hereafter.
The great point, however, was to enable the Count to make his exit
from the prison, and it was at this that the heart of Jerome Riquet
failed. His was one of those far-seeing geniuses that never forget, in
any situation, to obtain, from the circumstances of the present, any
thing which may be, however remotely, advantageous in the future. Upon
this principle he had acted in his conference with the King, and
without any definite and immediate object but that of obtaining pardon
for himself for past offences, he had induced the monarch, we must
remember, to give him a document, of which he now proposed to take
advantage. By a chemical process, very easily effected, he completely
took out the ink in those parts of the document where his own name was
written, and then, with slow and minute labour, substituted the name
of his master in the place, imitating, even to the slightest stroke,
the writing of the King. The date underwent the same change to suit
his purpose, so that a complete pardon, in what appeared the undoubted
hand of the King himself, was prepared for the Count de Morseiul.
This step having been taken, Riquet contemplated his work with pride,
but fear, and the matter remained there for the whole day: but by the
next morning he had become habituated to daring; and, resolved to make
the document complete, he spent eight hours in forging, underneath, an
order, in due form, for the Count's liberation; and the most practised
eye could have scarcely found any difference between the lines there
written and those of the King himself. In all probability, if Riquet
could have obtained a scrap of Louvois' writing he would have added
the countersign of the minister, but, as that was not to be had, he
again laid the paper by, and was seized with some degree of panic at
what he had done.
He had brought up, however, from Poitou, his lord's intendant, and
several others of his confidential servants and attendants, promising
them, with the utmost conceit and self-confidence, to set the Count at
liberty. They now pressed him to fulfil his design, and while he
hesitated, with some degree of tremour, the note which the old English
officer had conveyed to him was put into his hands, and decided him at
once. He entrusted the forged order to a person whom he could fully
rely upon to deliver it at the gates of the Bastille, stationed his
relays upon the road, and prepared every thing for his master's
escape.
Such was the account which he gave to his young lord, as he sat in the
chateau of Angerville, and though he did not exactly express all that
he had heard in regard to Clemence de Marly and the Chevalier d'Evran,
he told quite enough to renew feelings in the bosom of the Count which
he had struggled against long and eagerly.
"Who were the men," demanded the Count, "that followed me on
horseback?"
"Both of them, Sir," replied the man, "were persons who would have
delayed any pursuit of you at the peril of their own lives. One of
them was your own man, Martin, whom you saved from being hung for a
spy, by the night attack you made upon the Prince of Orange's
quarters. The other, Sir, was poor Paul Virlay, who came up with the
intendant of his own accord, with his heart well nigh broken, and with
all the courage of despair about him."
"Poor Paul Virlay!" exclaimed the Count--"his heart well nigh broken!
Why, what has happened to him, Jerome? I left him in health and in
happiness."
"Ay, Sir," replied the man, "but things have changed since then. Two
hellish priests--I've a great mind to become a Huguenot myself--got
hold of his little girl, and got her to say, or at least swore that
she said, she would renounce her father's religion. He was furious;
and her mother, who had been ill for some days, grew worse, and took
to her bed. The girl said she never had said so; the priests said she
had, and brought a witness; and they seized her in her father's own
house, and carried her away to a convent. He was out when it happened,
and when he came back he found his wife dying and his child gone. The
mother died two days after; and Paul, poor fellow, whose brain was
quite turned, was away for three days with his large sledgehammer with
him, which nobody but himself could wield. Every body said that he was
gone to seek after the priests, to dash their brains out with the
hammer, but they heard of it, and escaped out of the province; and at
the end of three days he came back quite calm and cool, but every body
saw that his heart was broken. I saw him at Morseiul, poor fellow, and
I have seldom seen so terrible a sight. The mayor, who has turned
Catholic, you know, Sir, asked him if he had gone after the priests,
to which he said 'No;' but every one thinks that he did."
While Riquet was telling this tale the Count had placed his hands
before his eyes, and it was evident that he trembled violently, moved
by terrible and strongly conflicting feelings, the fiery struggle of
which might well have such an influence on his corporeal frame. He
rose from his seat slowly, however, when the man had done, and walked
up and down the room more than once with a stern heavy step. At
length, turning to Riquet again, he demanded,
"And in what state is the province?"
"Why, almost in a state of revolt, Sir," replied Riquet. "As far as I
can hear, there are as many as a couple of thousand men in arms in
different places. It is true they are doing no great things; that the
intendant of the province, sometimes with the Bishop, sometimes with
the Abbe St. Helie, marches hither and thither with a large body of
troops, and puts down the revolt here, or puts down the revolt there.
Till he hears that it has broken out in another place, he remains
where it last appeared, quartering his soldiers upon the inhabitants,
and, in the order of the day, allowing them _to do every thing but
kill_. Then he drives the people by thousands at a time to the
churches of our religion, makes them take the mass, and breaks a few
of them on the wheel when they spit the host out of their mouths. He
then writes up to the King that he has made wonderful conversions; but
before his letter can well reach Paris he is obliged to march to
another part of the province, to put down the insurrection there, and
to make converts, and break on the wheel as before."
"Say no more, say no more," cried the Count. "Oh, God! wilt thou
suffer this to go on?"
Again he paced the room for several minutes, and then turning suddenly
to Riquet, he said--"Riquet, you have shown yourself at once devoted,
courageous, and resolute in the highest degree."
"Oh, Sir," interrupted the man, "you mistake: I am the most desperate
coward that ever breathed."
"No jesting now, Riquet," said the Count, in a sorrowful tone; "no
jesting now. My spirits are too much crushed, my heart too much torn
to suffer me to hear one light word. After all that you have done for
me, will you do one act more? Have you the courage to return to Paris
this night, and carry a letter for me to Mademoiselle de Marly, and to
bring me back her reply?"
"Well, Sir, well," said Riquet, rubbing his hands, and then putting
his fore-finger under his collar, and running it round his neck with a
significant gesture, "a man can be hanged but once in his life, at
least as far as I know of; and, as Caesar said, 'A brave man is but
hanged once, a coward is hanged every day;' therefore, as I see no
other object that my father and mother could have in bringing me into
the world, but that I should be hanged in your service, I will go to
Paris, at the risk of accomplishing my destiny, with all my heart."
"Hark you, Riquet," replied the Count, "I will give you a means of
security. If by any means you should be taken, and likely to be put to
death for what you have done, tell those who take you, that, upon a
distinct promise of pardon to you under the King's own hand, the Count
of Morseiul will surrender himself in your place. I will give you that
promise under my hand, if you like."
"That is not necessary, Sir," replied Riquet. "Every body in all
France knows that you keep your word. But pray write the letter
quickly; for, ride as hard as I will, I shall have scarce time to
reach Paris before bed-time; and I suppose you would not have the
young lady wakened."
There was a degree of cold bitterness in Riquet's manner when he spoke
thus of Clemence, which made the Count of Morseiul feel that the man
thought he was deceived. But still, after what had passed before, he
felt that he was bound to be more upon his guard against himself than
against others; and he resolved that he would not be suspicious, that
he would drive from his bosom every such feeling, that he would
remember the indubitable proofs of affection that she had given him,
and that he would act toward her as if her whole conduct had been
under his eye, and had been such as he could most approve. The
materials for writing were instantly procured, and while Riquet caused
a fresh horse to be saddled, and prepared for his journey, the Count
sat down and wrote as follows:--
"My Beloved Clemence,
"Thank God, I am once more at liberty; but the brightness of that
blessing, great as it is under any circumstances, would be nearly all
tarnished and lost if I had not the hope that you would share it with
me. I am now some way on the road to Poitou, where I hear that the
most horrible and aggravated barbarities are daily being committed
upon my fellow Protestants. My conduct there must be determined by
circumstances; but I will own that my blood boils at the butchery and
persecution I hear of. I remember the dear and cheering promises you
have made--I remember the willingness and the joyfulness with which
those promises were made, and that recollection renders it not
madness,--renders it not selfishness to say to you, Come to me, my
Clemence, come to me as speedily as possible; come and decide for me,
when perhaps I may not have calmness to decide for myself! Come, and
let us unite our fate for ever, and so far acquire the power of
setting the will of the world at defiance. Were it possible, I would
trust entirely to your love and your promises, in the hope that you
would suffer the bearer of this, most faithful and devoted as he has
shown himself to be, to guide you to me; but I fear that the little
time he dare stay in Paris would render it impossible for you to make
your escape with him. Should this, as I fear, be the case, write to
me, if it be but a few lines, to tell me how I can assist or aid you
in your escape, and when it can be made. Adieu! Heaven bless and guard
you."
Before he had concluded Riquet had again appeared, telling him that he
was ready to set out, and taking the somewhat useless precaution to
seal his letter, the Count gave it into his hands, and saw him depart.
It was now about five o'clock in the evening; and as he knew that many
a weary and expectant hour must pass before the man could return, the
Count conferred with all the various attendants who had been collected
at Angerville, and found that the account which Riquet had given him
of the state of Poitou was confirmed in every respect. Each had some
tale of horror or of cruelty. Paul Virlay, however, whom he had asked
for more than once, did not appear; and it was discovered on inquiry
that he had not even remained at Angerville, but with the cold and
sullen sort of despair that had fallen upon him had ridden on, now
that he judged the Count was in safety.
After a time the young nobleman, anxious for some repose both of mind
and of body, cast himself upon a bed, in the hope of obtaining sleep;
but it visited not his eyelids; dark and horrible and agitating
visions peopled the hours of darkness, though slumber had no share in
calling them up. At length, full two hours before he had expected that
Riquet could return, the sound of a horse's feet, coming at a rapid
pace, struck the Count's ear, as he lay and listened to the howling of
the November wind; and, starting up, he went to the window of the room
and gazed out. It was a clear night, with the moon up, though there
were some occasional clouds floating quickly over the sky, and he
clearly saw that the horseman was Riquet, and alone. Proceeding into
the other room where he had left a light, he hastened down to meet
him, asking whether he had obtained an answer.
"I have, Sir," replied the man; "though I saw not the fair lady
herself: yet Maria, the waiting woman, brought it in no long time.
There it is;" and drawing it from his pocket, he gave it into the
Count's hand. Albert of Morseiul hastened back with the letter, and
tore it eagerly open; but what were the words that his eyes saw?
"Cruel and unkind," it began, "and must I not add--alas, must I not
add even to the man that I love--ungenerous and ungrateful? What would
I not have sacrificed, what would I not have done, rather than that
this should have occurred, and that the first use you make of your
liberty should be to fly to wage actual war against the crown! How
shall I dare look up? I, who for weeks have been pleading that no such
thought would ever enter into your noble and loyal nature. No, Albert,
I cannot follow the messenger you send; or, to use the more true and
straight-forward word, I _will_ not; and never by my presence with
you, however much I may still love you, will I countenance the acts to
which you are now hurrying."
It was signed "Clemence;" but it fell from the Count's hand ere his
eye had reached that word, and he gazed at it fixedly as it lay upon
the ground for several moments, without attempting to raise it; then,
turning with a sudden start to Riquet and another servant who stood
by, as if for orders, he exclaimed--"To horse!"