THE STUDENTS OF 1665
Night came on, dark, cold, tempestuous. The fleeting beauty of the
spring evening had long departed; the moon became totally invisible
through the thick clouds that had been soaring onwards in gloomy
masses from the south; and the outlines of the houses were no longer
to be traced against the sky. All was merged in one deep impenetrable
obscurity. There were symptoms of a turbulent night. The wind whistled
keenly over the river and the dreary flats adjoining; and big drops of
rain fell audibly upon the paved court and drawbridge of the Bastille.
The heavy gates slowly folded upon each other with a dreary wailing
sound, which spoke the hopeless desolation of all that they enclosed.
And when the strained and creaking chains of the drawbridge had once
more lowered the platform, Sainte-Croix entered the vehicle by which
he had arrived, and, giving some directions to the guard, left the
precincts of the prison.
As the carriage lumbered down the Rue St. Antoine, a smile of triumph
gleamed across the features of its occupant, mingled with the
expression of satire and mistrust which characterised every important
reflection that he gave way to. A dangerous enemy had been, as he
conceived, rendered powerless. There was but one person in the world
of whom he stood in awe; and that one was now, on the dark authority
of a _lettre de cachet_, in the inmost dungeon of the Bastille. The
career of adventures that he had planned to arrive at the pinnacle of
his ambitious hopes--and Gaudin de Sainte-Croix was an adventurer in
every sense of the word--now seemed laid open before him without a
cloud or hindrance. The tempestuous night threw no gloomy forebodings
upon his soul. The tumult of his passions responded wildly to that of
the elements, or appeared to find an echo in the gusts of the angry
wind, as it swept, loud and howling, along the thoroughfares.
The carriage, by his orders, passed the Pont Marie, and, crossing the
Ile St. Louise, stopped before a house, still existing, in the Rue des
Bernardins, where his lodging was situated. The street leads off from
the quay on the left bank of the Seine, opposite the back of Notre
Dame; but, at the date of our story, was nearly on the outskirts of
the city. Here he discharged the equipage with the guard; and,
entering the house for a few minutes, returned enveloped in a large
military cloak, and carrying a lighted cresset on the end of a
halberd.
He pressed hurriedly forward towards the southern extremity of the
city, passing beside the abbey of Sainte Geneviève, where the
Pantheon now stands. Beyond this, on the line of streets which at
present bear the name of the ‘Rues des Fosses,’ the ancient walls of
Paris had, until within a year or two of this period, existed; but the
improvements of Louis XIV., commenced at the opposite extremity of the
city, had razed the fortifications to the ground. Those to the north,
levelled and planted with trees, now form the Boulevards; the southern
line had, as yet, merely been thrown into ruins; and the only egress
from the town was still confined to the point where the gates had
stood, kept tolerably clear for the convenience of travellers, and
more especially those dwelling in the increasing faubourgs. Even these
ways were scarcely practicable. The water, for want of drains,
collected into perfect lakes, and the deep ruts were left unfilled, so
that the thoroughfare, hazardous by day, became doubly so at night; in
fact, it was a matter of some enterprise to leave or enter the city at
its southern outlet.
The rain continued to fall; and the cresset that Gaudin carried,
flickering in the night winds, oftentimes caused him to start and put
himself on his guard, at the fitful shadows it threw on the dismantled
walls and towers that bordered the way. At last a violent gust
completely extinguished it, and he would have been left in a most
unpleasant predicament, being totally unable to proceed or retrace his
steps in the perfect obscurity, had not a party of the marching watch
opportunely arrived. Not caring to be recognised, Sainte-Croix
slouched his hat over his face, and giving the countersign to the
_chevalier du guet_, requested a light for his cresset. The officer
asked him a few questions as to what he had seen; and stated that they
were taking their rounds in consequence of the increasing brigandages
committed by the scholars dwelling in the Quartier Latin, as well as
the inhabitants of the Faubourgs St. Jacques and St. Marcel, between
whom an ancient rivalry in vagabondising and robbery had long existed.
And, indeed, as we shall see, many high in position in Paris were at
this period accustomed to ‘take the road’--some from a reckless spirit
of adventure; others with the desire of making up their income
squandered at the gaming-table, or in the lavish festivals which the
taste of the age called forth.
He passed the counterscarp, and had reached the long straggling street
of the faubourg, when two men rushed from between the pillars which
supported the rude houses, and ordered him to stop. Gaudin was
immediately on his defence. He hastily threw off his cloak, and drew
his sword, parrying the thrust that one of the assailants aimed at
him, but still grasping his cresset in his left hand, which the other
strove to seize. They were both masked; and pressed him somewhat
hardly, as the foremost, in a voice he thought he recognised, demanded
his purse and mantle.
‘_Aux voleurs!_’ shouted Sainte-Croix, not knowing how many of the
party might be in ambush. There was no reply, except the echo to his
own voice. But, as he spoke, his chief assailant told the other, who
had wrested the light away, to desist; and drawing back, pulled off
his mask and revealed the features of the Marquis of Brinvilliers--the
companion of Sainte-Croix that afternoon on the Carrefour du
Châtelet.
‘Gaudin’s voice, a livre to a sou!’ exclaimed the Marquis.
‘Antoine!’ cried his friend as they recognised each other. ‘It is
lucky I cried out, although no help came. It takes a sharper eye and a
quicker arm than mine to parry two blades at once.’
The two officers looked at each other for a minute, and then broke
into a burst of laughter; whilst the third party took off his hat and
humbly sued for forgiveness.
‘And Lachaussée, too!’ continued Sainte-Croix, as he perceived it was
one of his dependants. ‘The chance is singular enough. I was even now
on my way to the Gobelins to find you, rascal.’
‘Then we are not on the same errand?’ asked the Marquis.
‘If you are out as a _coupe-bourse_, certainly not. What devil
prompted you to this venture? A woman?’ asked Sainte-Croix.
‘No devil half so bad,’ replied Brinvilliers; ‘but the fat Abbe de
Cluny. He goes frequently to the Gobelins after dark; it is not to
order tapestry only for his _hôtel_. Since the holy sisterhood of
Port-Royal have moved to the Rue de la Bourbe, he seeks bright eyes
elsewhere.’
‘I see your game,’ answered Gaudin; ‘you are deeper in debt than in
love. But it is no use waiting longer. This is not the night for a man
to rest by choice in the streets; and my cry appears at last to have
had an effect upon the drowsy faubourgs.’
As he spoke, he directed the attention of Brinvilliers to one of the
upper windows of a house whence a sleepy bourgeois had at last
protruded his head, enveloped in an enormous convolution of hosiery.
He projected a lighted candle before him, as he challenged the persons
below; but, ere the question reached them, it was extinguished by the
rain, and all was again dark and silent.
Sainte-Croix directed Lachaussée to pile together the embers in the
cresset, which the brief struggle had somewhat disarranged; and then,
as the night-wind blew them once more into a flame, he took the arm of
the Marquis, and, preceded by the overlooker of the Gobelins, passed
down the Rue Mouffetard.
They stopped at an old and blackened house, supported like the others
upon rough pillars of masonry, which afforded a rude covered walk
under the projecting stories; and signalised from the rest by a
lantern projecting over the doorway. Such fixed lights were then very
rare in Paris; and this was why the present was raised to the dignity
of an especial sign: and the words ‘_A la Lanterne_’ rudely painted on
its transparent side betokened a house of public entertainment. Within
the range of its light the motto ‘_Urbis securitas et nitor_’ was
scrawled along the front of the casement.
‘I shall give up my plan for to-night,’ said Brinvilliers as they
reached the door. ‘The weather has possibly kept the Abbe in the
neighbourhood of the Gobelins. You can shelter here: there are some
_mauvais garçons_ still at table, I will be bound, that even
Bras-d’Acier himself would shrink from grappling with.’
Thus speaking, he knocked sharply at the door with the handle of his
sword, which he had kept unsheathed since his rencontre with
Sainte-Croix. A murmur of voices, which had been audible upon their
arriving, was instantly hushed, and, after a pause of a few seconds, a
challenge was given from within. Brinvilliers answered it: the door
was opened, and Sainte-Croix entered the cabaret, followed by
Lachaussée.
‘You are coming too, Antoine?’ asked Gaudin of his companion, as the
latter remained on the sill.
‘Not this evening,’ replied the Marquis. ‘You wished to see
Lachaussée, and this is the nearest spot where you could find shelter
without scrambling on through the holes and quagmires to the
Gobelins.’
‘But I know nobody here.’
‘Possibly they may know you, and my introduction is sufficient. I have
other affairs which must be seen to this evening, since my first plan
has failed. You will be with us to-morrow?’
‘Without fail,’ replied Gaudin.
Brinvilliers commended his companion to the care of the host, and took
his leave; whilst Sainte-Croix and Lachaussée were conducted into an
inner apartment in the rear of the house.
It was a low room, with the ceiling supported by heavy blackened
beams. The plaster of the walls was, in places, broken down; in others
covered with rude charcoal drawings and mottoes. A long table was
placed in the centre of the apartment; and over this was suspended a
lamp which threw a lurid glare upon the party around it.
This was composed of a dozen young men whom Sainte-Croix directly
recognised to be scholars of the different colleges. They were dressed
in every style of fashion according to their tastes--one would not
have seen appearances more varied in the Paris students of the present
day. Some still kept to the fashions of the preceding reigns--the
closely-clipped hair, pointed beard and ring of moustache surrounding
the mouth. Others had a semi-clerical habit, and others again
assimilated to the dress of the epoch; albeit the majority wore their
own hair. But in one thing they appeared all to agree. Large wine-cups
were placed before each, and flagons passed quickly from one to the
other round the table.
They stared at Sainte-Croix as he entered with his attendant, and were
silent. One of them, however, recognised him, and telling the others
that he was a friend, made a place for him at his side, whilst
Lachaussée took his seat at the chimney corner on a rude settle.
‘Your name, my worthy seigneur?’ exclaimed one of the party at the
head of the table; ‘we have no strangers here. Philippe Glazer, tell
your friend to answer.’
‘My name is Gaudin de Sainte-Croix. I am a captain in his Majesty’s
Normandy regiment. Yours is----?’
The collected manner in which the new-comer answered the question
evidently made an impression on the chairman. He was a good-looking
young man, with long dark hair and black eyes, clad in a torn mantle
evidently put on for the nonce, with an old cap adorned with shells
upon his head, and holding a knotty staff, fashioned like a crutch,
for a sceptre. He made a slight obeisance, and replied--
‘Well--you are frank with me; I will be the same. I have two names,
and answer to both equally. In this society of Gens de la Courte
Épée,[1] I am called “Le Grand Coësre;” at the Hôtel Dieu they
know me better as Camille Theria, of Liége, in the United
Netherlands.’
At a sign from the speaker, one of the party took a bowl from before
him and pushed it along the table towards Sainte-Croix. There were a
few pieces of small money in it, and Gaudin directly perceiving their
drift threw in some more. A sound of acclamation passed round the
table, and he immediately perceived that he had risen to the highest
pitch in their estimation.
‘He is one of us!’ cried Theria. ‘_Allons!_ Glazer--the song--the
song.’
The student addressed directly commenced; the others singing the
chorus, and beating time with their cups.
Glazer’s Song.
I.
Ruby bubbling from the flask,
Send the grape’s bright blood around;
Throw off steady life’s cold mask,
Every earthly care confound.
Here no rules are known,
_Buvons!_
Here no schools we own,
_Trinquons!_
Let wild glee and revelry
Sober thought dethrone.
_Plan! Plan! Plan! Rataplan!_
II.
Would you Beauty’s kindness prove?
Drink! faint heart ne’er gain’d a prize.
Hath a mistress duped your love?
Drink! and fairer forms will rise.
Clasp’d may be the zone,
_Buvons!_
Even to the throne.
_Trinquons!_
But full well the students know
Beauty is their own.
_Plan! Plan! Plan! Rataplan!_
III.
Soaring thoughts our minds entrance,
Now we seem to spurn the ground.
See,--the lights begin to dance,
Whirling madly round and round.
Still the goblet drain,
_Buvons!_
Till each blazing vein
_Trinquons!_
Sends fresh blood in sparkling flood
To the reeling brain.
_Plan! Plan! Plan! Rataplan!_
‘Your voice ought to make your fortune, Philippe,’ said Sainte-Croix,
who appeared to know the student intimately.
‘_Pardieu!_ it does me little service. Theria, there, who cannot sing
a note, keeps all the _galanteries_ to himself. Ho! Maître Camille!
here I pledge your last conquest.’ And he raised his cup as he added,
‘Marie-Marguerite de Brinvilliers!’
Sainte-Croix started at the name; his eyes, flashing with anger,
passed rapidly from one to the other of the two students.
‘_Chut!_’ cried another of the students, a man of small stature, who
was dressed in the court costume of the period, but shabbily, and with
every point exaggerated. ‘_Chut!_ Monsieur perchance knows la belle
Marquise, and will not bear to hear her name lipped amongst us?’
The student had noticed the rapid change and expression of
Sainte-Croix’s countenance.
‘No, no--you are mistaken,’ said Gaudin. ‘I am slightly acquainted
with the lady. I served with her husband.’
‘Jean Blacquart,’ said Glazer, with much solemnity, to the scholar who
had last spoken, ‘if you interrupt the conversation again, I shall let
out your Gascon blood with the cook’s spit, and then drop you into the
Bièvre. Remember it runs underneath the window.’
The Gascon--for so he was--was immediately silent.
‘The Captain Gaudin cannot know less of La Brinvilliers than I do,’
continued Theria, ‘save by report, as a charitable and spirited lady.
I met her at mass a fortnight since, at the Jacobins in the Rue St.
Honoré, and escorted her from a tumult that rose in the church. I
might have improved on my acquaintance had that senseless Blacquart
permitted me.’
The scholars looked towards Blacquart, and simultaneously broke into
the same kind of noise they would have made in chasing an animal from
the room. The Gascon was evidently the butt of the society.
‘Explain!’ cried several to Theria. ‘What was the tumult owing to?’
‘A woman, of course,’ answered Camille. ‘You know La Duménil?’
‘Proceed, proceed,’ exclaimed the others. The name was apparently well
known amongst the scholars.
‘Well--her lackey stumbled against the chair on which Madame de la
Beaume was kneeling, and got a box on the ears from the latter for his
stupidity, that rang all through the church. La Duménil took part
with her servant, and soundly abused the other, to which La Beaume
replied as heartily, and the service was stopped.’
‘The quarrel must have been amusing,’ observed Glazer.
‘_Ventrebleu!_ the women in the _halles_ and markets would have turned
pale at their salutations. At last La Duménil threw a missal at her
opponent’s head, which well-nigh brought her to the ground. The people
collected about them, and Madame de Brinvilliers was nearly crushed by
the crowd, when I rescued her and led her to the porch.’
‘And what said she, Camille?’ inquired Glazer.
‘She was thanking me earnestly, and might have expressed something
more, when that no-witted Blacquart spoilt everything by calling me
back again. In his Gascon chivalry to defend La Beaume he had drawn
his sword against Duménil.’
‘I think that was somewhat courageous though,’ returned Glazer with
mock approbation. ‘Did you really do this, Jean?’
‘On my faith I did,’ answered the Gascon, brightening up; ‘and would
do it again. I should like to see the woman in Paris that I am afraid
of.’
A roar of applause greeted Blacquart’s heroism, and the attention of
the party was immediately turned towards the Gascon, to the great
relief of Sainte-Croix, who during the anecdote had been ill at ease.
He could have added that he had himself escorted the marchioness from
the Jacobins when Theria was recalled.
‘I propose,’ cried Camille, ‘that, for his bravery, Jean Blacquart be
invested with the ancient Order of Montfauçon.’
‘Agreed,’ cried the others, rising and surrounding the Gascon, whose
countenance betrayed a mixed expression of self-conceit and
apprehension.
‘Ho, messire!’ exclaimed Theria to Lachaussée, who had remained all
the time sitting near the fire; ‘we appoint you Master of the Halter.
Take it, and tie it round that beam.’
He threw a cord to Sainte-Croix’s attendant as he spoke, who fastened
it to the point indicated, with its running noose hanging down.
‘What are you going to do?’ demanded Blacquart, getting somewhat
terrified.
‘To hang you,’ replied Camille: ‘but only for a little time. Glazer
and myself will mind your pulse carefully; and when you are nearly
dead you may depend upon it that we shall cut you down.’
‘But--I say--Theria--Philippe!’ cried Jean in an agony of fright. He
had witnessed so many of their wild pranks that he did not know what
they were about to do.
‘Père Camus,’ cried the master of the Gens de la Courte Épée to one
of the party bearing a costume of the church--a broken-down and
dissipated abbe. ‘Père Camus, chant a mass for the departing courage
of Jean Blacquart.’
‘_Au secours!_’ shrieked the Gascon; ‘_au feu! aux voleurs! au----_’
His further cries for help were cut short by one of the scholars
thrusting a baked apple into his mouth, and immediately tying his
scarf over it. The miserable little Gascon was directly seized and
hoisted on to the table, in spite of his violent struggles; whilst the
abbe commenced a profane chant, intended as a parody upon some
religious service.
Where their frolic might have ended cannot be defined. The
consequences of the orgies in the time of Louis XIV., in every
position of life, were little cared for; and the unhappy Jean might
have been strangled by accident with very little compunction, had not
a violent knocking at the door alarmed the revellers, and caused them
to desist for the minute from their lawless proceedings. A silence
ensued, unbroken except by the efforts of the Gascon to release
himself, in the course of which he kicked the flagons and goblets
about in all directions.
‘Open to the Garde Bourgeois!’ cried a voice outside.
There was no resisting the command. The host unbarred the door, and a
little pursy man, who looked like a perambulating triumphal car of
apoplexy, entered the cabaret.
‘Master Poncelet,’ he said to the host, as he shook his head, until
his face was a deep crimson; ‘this is against the law, and I must look
to it, as answerable for the morality of the faubourgs. We cannot
allow this brawling four hours after curfew--we cannot allow it.’
‘If you had come two minutes later,’ said Blacquart, as he forced
himself from his tormentors, ‘you would have seen me a----’
Under what guise the Garde Bourgeois would have seen Jean Blacquart
was never made known to him. A back-handed blow from Theria overturned
the Gascon into the corner of the room, from whence he did not care to
arise, not knowing what reception might next await him.
‘Maître Picard,’ said the host with respect, addressing the patrol;
‘these are learned clerks--scholars of Mazarin and of Cluny; with some
from the Hôtel Dieu. They seek the faubourgs for quiet and study.’
‘I cannot help it, Master Poncelet,’ replied the bourgeois; ‘the
morality of St. Marcel requires the utmost vigilance of its
superintendents. Messieurs, you must respect my authority, and put out
all the lights directly.’
‘Call in your guard to do it,’ said Philippe Glazer; ‘we are not
lackeys.’
‘My guard is now going round the Rue du Puits qui Parle,’ replied the
bourgeois, ‘wherein is much evil congregated. I am here. Our good king
Louis is The State. I am The Guard.’
‘Thank you--thank you, Maître Picard,’ said Theria. ‘I respect you,
although you made me a cap last year of a villainous fabric, and told
me that it was the best cloth of Louvain; you forgot I breathed my
first gasp of air in Brabant. And you are sure that the guard cannot
put out our lights?’
‘I have told you they are not near us,’ said the bourgeois, offended
at being obliged to repeat the intelligence.
‘Excellent!’ observed Theria. ‘Philippe, close the door, and let
Maître Picard take us all into custody.’
Glazer immediately obeyed the command of their chairman, whilst the
others huddled round the luckless little bourgeois, who began to feel
remarkably uncomfortable.
‘Respite the Gascon and hang Maître Picard in his stead, by his
heels,’ said Theria.
‘I give you all warning!’ cried Picard; ‘I give you all warning! I am
a _quartenier_ and can punish you all. Keep your hands away!’
Sainte-Croix, at the first appearance of the bourgeois, had thrown his
cloak over his shoulders, not wishing to be recognised in his military
dress, and had retreated with Lachaussée into a corner of the room,
whither Maître Picard followed him with an appealing glance, noting
that his appearance was somewhat more respectable than that of the
scholars.
‘I tell you, you do this at your peril,’ screamed Picard. ‘The police
show no mercy to the vagabonds and _mauvais garçons_ who maltreat an
enlightened bourgeois.’
‘We thank you for the hint,’ said Theria. ‘Ho! _mes enfants_; in
consideration of Maître Picard’s enlightenment we incline to mercy
and utility. Let us hang him before the door, and save our host’s
candles. La Reinie never thought of so grand an illumination as an
enlightened bourgeois.’
‘Agreed!’ cried the scholars. ‘_A la lanterne! à la lanterne!_’
[image: img_04.jpg
caption: The Students Enlightening Maître Picard]