SAINTE-CROIX AND HIS CREATURE
The cry had not the terrible meaning which it carried a century
afterwards, but it was sufficiently mischievous to offer but little
relief to Maître Picard. In an instant he was borne off his legs, and
hoisted on the shoulders of the scholars; whilst Philippe Glazer
thrust a link into the fire, and when it was kindled preceded the
procession to the door. Some of his companions dragged out a table and
a chair, in spite of the rain, into the street; and forming a kind of
scaffold they rapidly took down the lantern and perched Maître
Picard, link in hand, upon its iron support, directly removing every
means of escape from beneath him.
The poor little bourgeois was in a lamentable position. The ironwork
of the lamp was anything but trustworthy; and, albeit a man of small
stature, he was heavily inclined. With one hand he grasped his
unenviable seat and with the other he sustained the link, not daring
to put it out, for fear of some new infliction that his tormentors
might invent.
‘_Salut!_ Maître Picard,’ cried Theria, doffing his bonnet. ‘Who
arrested Jean Sauval, at the Sorbonne, for taking the cloak from
Bussi-Rabuten on the Pont Neuf?’
‘_Filou!_’ cried the bourgeois.
‘Who pointed out to the watch where François de Chanvalon, the
archbishop, went, instead of to Notre Dame? _Salut_, bourgeois!’ cried
Philippe Glazer, with another pretended obeisance.
And then the scholars joined their hands, and performed a wild dance
around him.
‘Stay awhile, stay awhile!’ exclaimed Maître Picard. ‘Now you shall
see what I can do. Here comes the _Guet Royal_. _Aux voleurs! aux
voleurs!!_’
The little man was right. From his elevated position he had seen the
guard with their lights turning round the corner of the Rue
Mouffetard, and he now hailed them with all the force of his lungs,
kicking his legs in nervous anxiety until one of his shoes fell off
upon Glazer’s head, who directly returned it, flinging it at the
little man with a force that almost upset him from his treacherous
position.
The scholars instantly took the alarm (for some of the mounted guard
were riding down the street), and fled in all directions along the
narrow and dark outlets of the Faubourg St. Marcel. Lachaussée, who,
with Sainte-Croix, had been a spectator of the scene, seized the
officer by the arm and drew him into the house.
‘It will not do for you to be found here, monsieur,’ he said; ‘follow
me--we can get off by the Bièvre.’
He closed the door after them, and telling the host not to admit the
guard, but let them break in if they chose, passed through the room
lately occupied by the scholars, and throwing open the window, stepped
out upon the bank of the Bièvre--a small stream running from the
south, which flows into the Seine a little above the present Pont
d’Austerlitz by the Jardin des Plantes. It was now swollen with the
rains, and was rushing angrily by the narrow path, along which
Lachaussée led the way, having once more closed the window.
They crept along, clinging like bats to the walls of the houses that
bordered the stream, at the risk of falling into it every minute,
until Lachaussée stopped at a small gate, to which he applied a
pass-key. It opened, and Sainte-Croix found himself in an outer court
of the Gobelins. This they crossed, and were immediately afterwards in
one of the apartments apportioned to the superintendents.
Lachaussée raked together some embers on the hearth, which he soon
blew into a flame, and then lighted a lamp; whilst Sainte-Croix once
more threw off his cloak and took his place on one of the settles.
‘So,’ he exclaimed, ‘we are once more housed. Your night’s adventure
is so far to be considered fortunate, as I might have looked for you
long enough here, it seems.’
‘The purse of the Marquis wanted replenishing,’ replied Lachaussée in
an easy tone. ‘You did not let me know you were coming, or I might
have stayed at home.’
‘I am chilled and wearied,’ said Sainte-Croix; ‘have you no wine?’
‘Better than ever paid duty in the city,’ said Lachaussée, producing
a bottle from a closet. ‘They watch the town, but forget the river.’
‘That is right good Burgundy,’ observed Sainte-Croix, as he tasted it.
‘The best that the vineyards of Auxerre can produce. One needs it in
such a dismal outskirt, Heaven knows!’
‘Your position might be worse.’
‘It might be much better,’ returned Lachaussée carelessly. ‘I am glad
you have come. I spoke to the Marquis about entering his service, for
I am somewhat weary of the faubourgs; and he referred me to you. You
do not want a character, I presume, or a reference?’
He gave out these words full of meaning, and looked earnestly at
Sainte-Croix as he uttered them.
‘You will remain here during my pleasure,’ replied the other,
refilling his glass.
‘And suppose it wearies me?’
‘I shall tell you a story to amuse you and beguile the time,’ Gaudin
answered. ‘But possibly you know it: it relates to an event that
occurred some three years back at Milan.’
Lachaussée was pouring out some wine for himself. He placed the cup
down on the table, and regarded Sainte-Croix with a look of mingled
fear and mistrust. Gaudin cast his eye round, and perceiving that the
attention of the other was arrested, continued--
‘There were two soldiers staying at the Croce Bianca: one was an
officer in the French service, the other a renegade who turned his
back upon the Fronde with the Prince de Condé; went with him into
Spain to take up arms against his own country; and then, when the
chances turned, deserted again and joined the French army. He must
have been a double knave. What think you?’
Lachaussée gave no answer. He moved his lips in reply, but no sound
escaped them.
‘The resources of these two were nearly exhausted,’ resumed
Sainte-Croix--‘for they led a gallant life, when a French nobleman,
rich and young, arrived at Milan. He was courted, feted, in all
circles; and he became introduced to the officer and his companion.
They marked him for their prey; and one night, at the gaming-table,
carried off a large sum of money, offering the noble his revenge on
the following evening at the Croce Bianca. He embraced the chance, and
came alone; fortune once more patronised him, and he gained back, not
merely what he had lost, but every sou the others possessed in the
world.
‘There was a grand festival that evening given by one of the Borromeo
family, and the officer departed to it, leaving the renegade and the
nobleman still playing. In the middle of the fete, a mask approached
the officer and slipped a letter into his hand, immediately quitting
the assembly.’
Sainte-Croix took a small pouncet-box from his breast, and opened it.
He then unfolded a scrap of paper, and continued--
‘It read as follows: “Exili’s potion has done its work. I have started
with everything to the frontier. Do not return to the Croce Bianca
until after daybreak.” The officer followed the advice; and when he
went back to the inn the noble had been found dead in the room, with
an empty phial of the terrible “Manna of St. Nicholas de Barri”[2]
clutched in his hand. He was presumed to have committed suicide, and
the crime was in twenty-four hours hidden by the grave. The officer
soon afterwards left Milan and joined the other in Paris. His name was
Gaudin de Sainte-Croix; the renegade and real murderer was called
Lachaussée.’
‘What is the use of thus recalling all that has long past?’ said
Lachaussée, who, during Gaudin’s story, had recovered his composure.
‘The same blow that strikes one, must hurl the other as well to
damnation. Exili, who is known to be in Paris, could crush us both.’
‘Exili has been this night conveyed to the Bastille by a _lettre de
cachet_,’ replied Sainte-Croix; ‘and this small piece of writing is
enough to send you to join him. You were grumbling at your position: a
subterranean cell in St. Antoine is less pleasant than this room at
the Gobelins.’
‘I am as much at your disposal as at your mercy,’ returned
Lachaussée, swallowing down a large draught of wine. ‘What next do
you require of me?’
‘No very unpleasant task,’ said Sainte-Croix. ‘It regards a woman,
young, and fair enough, in all conscience. She has been working here,
it seems, until a very short period since. Have you the name of Louise
Gauthier amongst the artists of your ateliers?’
‘Surely,’ replied Lachaussée; ‘a haughty minx enough. She left a day
or two back, displeased with my attention; at least, she said so. I
know not where she is gone.’
A spasm crossed the features of Sainte-Croix during this speech of the
superintendent, as he eyed him with an expression of contempt,
amounting to disgust: but this passed, and he continued--
‘I can tell you: she is staying at the boat-mill below the Pont Notre
Dame. You must go to-morrow and ascertain if she is still there. In
the event of finding her, contrive so that she may be under your
control; place her in some situation where she can never see me, or
follow me, again. Do you understand?’
‘Perfectly,’ returned Lachaussée; ‘though mine would not be the
advice she would the soonest follow.’
And then he added, as he regarded Sainte-Croix with a piercing look--
‘You have sent Exili to the Bastille. He might have aided us.’
‘No more!’ cried Sainte-Croix, as he perceived the meaning of the
other. ‘No more! I must be freed from her annoyance. Other prospects
are opening to me, which her presence would cloud and destroy--but
remember, you will be held answerable for the slightest injury that
may affect her. If you want money, you have only to apply to me for
it; but, by Heaven! if every sou of what you draw is not appropriated
to her sole use, your life shall answer for it. Am I understood?’
‘You may count upon me,’ answered Lachaussée. ‘She shall never
trouble you more. I believe the girl is entirely destitute. Perhaps
she may look upon me with more favour when she finds how utterly
dependent she will be upon my liberality.’
‘I shall not return to the Rue des Bernardins to-night,’ said
Sainte-Croix. ‘You must accommodate me here, and to-morrow we will
leave together on our separate missions.’
There was a small apartment opening from the chamber wherein this
conversation had taken place, to which Lachaussée conducted his
companion. In the corner was a truckle bed, without furniture. Gaudin
threw his cloak upon it; and ordering the other to bring in the embers
from the fire-place, and place them upon the hearth, closed the door
as the task was finished, and prepared to retire to rest. He merely
took off his upper garments, and then lay carelessly down upon the
rude couch, placing his sword and pistols within his grasp upon a
chair by the side. He heard the steps of Lachaussée retiring, and
then all was still as the grave. The cold air of the room rushed up
the chimney and fanned the _braise_ into a light flame, which threw
the mouldings of the room in flitting and grotesque shadows upon the
walls and ceiling. As slumber came upon him, these assumed regular
forms in his fevered imagination. He fancied Exili and Lachaussée
appeared, and were dragging him down into a gulf, when Louise Gauthier
stretched out her arm, and they could not pass her; and then another
female, almost equally young and beautiful, with a countenance that
was ever before him, sleeping and waking, in the rich apparel of a
grand lady, drew him away from the rest, and told him to escape with
her. He attempted to fly, but his feet were riveted to the ground, and
the others were already in pursuit. They came nearer and nearer, and
were about to lay hands on him once more, when in his agony he awoke,
and starting up on the bed glared wildly about the room. By the light
of the declining embers he perceived some one moving in the chamber,
and in the alarmed voice of a person suddenly aroused from a frightful
dream he challenged the intruder.
‘It is I, Lachaussée,’ cried the superintendent, for it was he. ‘I--I
came to see what you wanted. You have been moaning bitterly in your
sleep; I knew not what might happen to you.’
‘It was nothing,’ returned Gaudin. ‘I have drunk deeply this evening,
and my sleep is fevered and troubled. Get you to bed yourself, and do
not enter this room again except I summon you.’
Lachaussée departed without a word; and, as soon as he was gone,
Sainte-Croix moved the bed from the wall and placed its foot against
the door; he then once more lay down, but not for sleep. Every
night-noise caused him to start up and listen anxiously for some
minutes, in the apprehension that the treachery of Lachaussée might
once more bring him to the room.
Daylight came slowly through the window, and the sound of the early
artisans assembling in the court-yards for their work was heard below,
when he at last sank into a deep and unbroken morning slumber.