WHAT FURTHER BEFEL LOUISE IN THE CATACOMBS OF THE BIÈVRE
As the last of the lawless band departed from the _carrière_
Lachaussée advanced towards the altar, at the foot of which Louise
Gauthier had claimed a sanctuary. In spite of Bras d’Acier’s last
threat, the denunciation of the Abbe Camus had somewhat awed him. But
Lachaussée was less scrupulous. He was as dead to all religious
feeling as the others, and besides this, superstition had no power
over him. Advancing to the cross, he seized the arm of Louise, and
tore her from the altar into the middle of the apartment.
The knocking which had struck such terror into the hearts of the
subterraneous gang still continued, and again Louise raised her voice
for assistance.
‘They will murder me!’ she cried. ‘Help! this instant, or it will be
too late. There are but two, and----’
Lachaussée placed his hand over her mouth and stopped her cries. And
then, assisted by Bras d’Acier, he hurried her into a smaller
_carrière_ leading from the great one by a rude archway, which could
be closed after a manner, like the door, by a large curtain of rude
sackcloth. It was a vault hewn out similarly to the other, with a
rough attempt to form a gothic roof and buttresses from the limestone.
But there were horrid features in the apartment which made Louise
shudder as she looked timidly round. A dull and smoking lamp was here
also suspended from the ceiling, and by its light could be seen
coffins in every direction round the walls; some with their feet
projecting some inches beyond them; others lying sideways, such as we
see bounding the grave of a crowded burying-ground. In many instances
they were open, but no remains were visible. Their cases appeared to
have been appropriated to use as cupboards, in which articles of
various kinds were stored. In one corner were a few skulls and bones
thrown carelessly together; the number was insignificant, and they
were not ranged in the order of the existing catacombs. As we have
stated, the _carrières_ were at that time the mere result of
excavations for building stone; it was not until more than a century
after the date of our story that the health of the city demanded the
removal of the foul and reeking burial-ground attached to the Église
des Innocens, at the corner of the Rue St. Denis and the Rue aux Fers,
near the present market, with whose beautiful fountain every visitor
to Paris is familiar.[3]
In one corner of this ghastly chamber was a large font filled with
water, which distilled drop by drop from the stalactites that overhung
it, and the reflection of the lamp quivered on its dark surface. It
ran over at one corner, and small channels hewn in the floor conveyed
it away to _carrières_ still deeper.
‘Another word,’ said Lachaussée, ‘and we leave you to your own
company in this dreary place.’
‘I ask no more,’ replied Louise, recoiling from him as he relaxed his
hold. ‘Let me be anywhere, so long as I am alone, and away from those
fearful people.’
‘I am sorry you do not like them,’ said Bras d’Acier; ‘the more so as
you will perhaps have to pass a little time amongst us. Only it would
not have answered to have taken you from the sanctuary before them.
They are particular in matters of religion.’
And he accompanied these last words with a horrid laugh.
‘Do not take me among them again, M. Lachaussée,’ said Louise, ‘I
implore you. Let me remain here rather, even in this dismal vault.’
‘Pshaw!’ cried Lachaussée; ‘you know not where you are. Look at those
coffins--they have long since been despoiled of their festering
contents to hold Bras d’Acier’s riches. You are below the cemetery of
St. Medard, hemmed in on all sides by corpses, the accumulation of
centuries. Would you like this for a companion?’
He stooped to pick up a skull, and held it in mockery over the flame
of the lamp, which hideously illuminated it. Then, tossing it back to
the corner of the chamber, he went on--
‘The very air is redolent of mortality. The decay of ages, in some of
the coffins, leaves but the food for that lamp which is now burning
above us. Bras d’Acier is an economist; and many of the quiet
inhabitants of the cemetery become more useful to mankind in death
than they ever were in lifetime. They form his flambeaux.’[4]
‘Is there no one to aid me,’ cried Louise in agony, and shrinking from
the accumulated horrors of Lachaussée’s description.
The dull knocking sound was again audible, but louder. It appeared to
be close at hand, and the girl redoubled her outcry.
‘Be still, I tell you,’ said Bras d’Acier, ‘and come instantly with
us.’
‘With you!’ exclaimed Louise; ‘never; you shall kill me first. Mother
of Mercy! pity me; for to you alone can I now look for assistance.’
She fell on her knees and grasped a small crucifix that was suspended
from her neck. Lachaussée snatched it from her, and threw it amidst
the bones and rubbish in the corner.
‘One moment’s delay,’ he added, ‘and you are lost. Do you see that
wall where the water is trickling and oozing into the font? It is not
thicker than the length of your hand, and that is the only boundary
between us and a branch of the cold Bièvre, which flows over our
heads. We have but to confine you in this room, and let in the river;
the _carrière_ will be filled, and every record of the deed hidden.
Come.’
‘Leave me here--drown me--if you know what mercy means,’ returned
Louise, as she struggled with her persecutor. ‘How have I ever injured
you, that you should persecute me thus terribly?’
‘Your own sense might have warned you not to annoy M. de Sainte-Croix
as you have done. But we have no time for words; you will have plenty
of leisure in the Carrière Montrouge to learn everything. Bras
d’Acier, you have broader shoulders than my own to carry a burden.
Take up the squalling minx, and follow me. I will precede you with the
light.’
The huge ruffian advanced towards Louise Gauthier, who, despite their
threats, shrieked with terror as he approached. He lifted her as he
would have done an infant, whilst Lachaussée took down the lamp from
where it hung and prepared to go before him. But as they were leaving
the vault the noise sounded close at their side; the very walls
appeared to quiver from some unseen blows; a few of the stalactites
fell down with the vibration at their feet, and lastly the gypsum that
formed the doorway was shivered into the chamber in large blocks, and
a bar of iron, sharpened at one end, protruded, as though it came from
the very bowels of the quarry. The concussion and the fall of the
blocks brought down others with them, and one large mass falling from
the top of the archway completely closed the passage.
Bras d’Acier recoiled at the unexpected obstruction, and, throwing
Louise off, raised a long heavy pistol fitted with a _snaphaunce_--a
cheap modification of the wheel-lock, much used by the marauders of
the period--and discharged it at the aperture whence the blocks had
tumbled. The report caused a few more lumps to fall from the ceiling,
and when the smoke cleared off, the upper part of a man’s body
appeared at the opening.
‘If that is one of Colbert’s blood-scenters, I have winged him,’ said
Bras d’Acier.
‘Not yet,’ said the stranger, smashing the wall on either side and
scrambling into the vault; ‘not yet, _mes braves_. Pheugh! I was
obliged to knock a long time before you let me in!’
‘Benoit!’ cried Louise, as she recognised our friend of the boat-mill,
and flew towards him. ‘What good angel brought you here?’
‘No better one than yourself, _ma belle_,’ replied the Languedocian.
‘So,’ he continued, looking around him, and perfectly undismayed by
the threatening looks of Bras d’Acier; ‘this is an odd place for
gallant officers, like M. Gaudin, to give appointments at or receive
visitors!’
‘Where are your fellows?’ asked Lachaussée.
‘Oh, I’m alone,’ replied Benoit. ‘What should I want with fellows?’
‘To bury you if we blow your brains out,’ returned Bras d’Acier.
‘Do it,’ said Benoit, drawing Louise towards him with one arm, whilst
with the other he carelessly dug a bit of gypsum from the wall with
his iron spike, and kicked it towards them. ‘Do it; and to-morrow my
little wife, Bathilde, will go to the Préfet with a note from me,
ordering a search for Louise and M. Lachaussée there, and telling him
where there will be a chance of finding me.’
‘How came you here?’ asked Lachaussée fiercely.
‘Not by your route,’ said Benoit. ‘I know every turn of the quarries
better than yourselves; I ought to do, for I worked in them when the
stone was hewn for the new works at the Gobelins. Do me the pleasure,
ma’amselle, to scramble through this opening.’
The last words were addressed to Louise, who remained close to her new
protector during the hurried parley, but at his bidding prepared to
climb over the debris of the gypsum into a passage beyond. Bras
d’Acier made a movement to intercept her, but was restrained by
Lachaussée.
‘Your turn is yet to come,’ said the robber, grinding his teeth at
Benoit.
‘As you please, _mon maître_; only think twice about it first,’
answered the Languedocian, as he assisted Louise through the archway.
‘You have checked us to-night,’ said Lachaussée; ‘it is the first
time, but it is the last; and when we meet above ground we will let
you know it.’
‘_Sacré bleu!_’ roared Bras d’Acier, rushing forward with a sudden
impulse. ‘I can’t lose our promised wages thus, come what may. Give up
the girl.’
As he flew at the broken archway, Benoit met him with a heavy blow
from his weapon upon his head. To another man it would have caused
instant death. Upon Bras d’Acier it had no other effect than making
him reel back against Lachaussée, who was behind him.
‘Fly, ma’amselle!’ said Benoit; ‘straight before you, towards that
light at the end of the _souterrain_. I warned you,’ he continued,
turning to the others. ‘You will find as strong arms in Languedoc as
in Paris.’
Bras d’Acier was for the minute stunned; he caught Lachaussée by the
arm and leant upon him for support. Benoit took advantage of the
circumstance to put the final _coup_ to his enterprise.
‘When we hunt out vermin,’ he said, ‘it is of no use unless we destroy
their nest. Now, save yourselves as you like; but you shall not come
near me.’
He was already on the other side of the passage, when,
[image: img_07.jpg
caption: Bras D’acier and Lachaussée Outwitted]
scrambling forward, he stood once more on the broken masses of the
quarry, brandishing his iron weapon. And then, with Herculean force,
he drove it against the side of the chamber which Lachaussée had
pointed out as adjoining the Bièvre. Another and another blow
succeeded, whilst a foaming stream followed the spike every time he
withdrew it, until, weakened by the ruptures, an immense portion of
the gypsum gave way, and, with the roar of a mighty cataract, an
enormous body of water burst through the wall, carrying everything
before it, as it rushed at once, leaping and chafing, to every part of
the chamber.
As the irruption took place, Benoit leaped back to the aperture he had
himself broken open. Lachaussée and Bras d’Acier, in the alarm of the
moment, prepared to follow him, for the lashing water had already
reached nearly unto their knees. But the force of the torrent drove
them back, and as it rushed to the readiest and lowest outlet--that
leading to the large vault--hurried them along with it, washing down
all the barrier that had been made in the archway by the fallen
blocks. By the lamp which still hung from the ceiling, Benoit saw them
whirled through the narrow passage; and the next instant the water
reached the level of the gallery wherein he stood.
‘Now! now, sweetheart, make use of your legs, if ever you did!’ he
cried to Louise, who had remained close to him. ‘We must travel fast
to outstrip it; but, thank heaven, it is all up-hill. Ah--lash away;
we shall beat you yet.’
He addressed the last words to some waves which dashed over the broken
gypsum at his feet; for, in spite of the vast _carrières_ into which
it had burst, the water was rising rapidly, in consequence of the
inequalities of their levels.
Then, seizing Louise, they fled rapidly, hand in hand, along the
gallery--which was altogether a different one from that by which she
had arrived--towards the end of it, where he had taken the precaution
to leave a light, chased by the furious stream that was hurrying with
a noise like thunder after them, coupled with the crashing and falling
of the blocks of limestone, which continually broke down before its
resistless force.
Fast and faster they sped through the labyrinth of vaults--now
crouching along a rough and narrow passage, and now flying over the
hard floor of a large vault, or scrambling across an eboulement of the
gypsum. And louder came the roar of the water, as it seemed animated
in the pursuit by a spirit of life. With the courage which despair
gives to the weakest, Louise kept up with and sometimes out-stripped
her companion, who cheered her as he best could; and whilst he
threaded the intricate way with a readiness that showed his perfect
familiarity with the _carrières_, promised her a safe asylum when
they left them.
At last they emerged; not, however, into the pure air, but the damp
and dim obscurity of a vault under one of the questionable dwellings
in the Rue d’Enfer. This street was then inhabited almost entirely by
the low and criminal population, which French statists have named
‘_les classes dangereuses_.’
Louise knelt in the vault and prayed. Benoit, after a moment’s pause,
reverently crossed himself and knelt by her.
‘_Eh bien_, ma’amselle!’ said he, when his devotions were finished,
although still out of breath. ‘Here is the worst part of our journey
over. Still----’
And Benoit paused and scratched his head violently.
‘Run into no further danger on my account, good friend,’ said Louise,
guessing at once the cause of his embarrassment. ‘It is enough that I
have escaped the fearful danger of those caverns. Leave me now; I will
find some shelter and employment. A convent----’
‘The _religieuses_ do not look upon young women exactly as godsends,
unless their pockets happen to be better garnished than I take yours
to be, _ma colombe_,’ said Benoit. ‘I would take you back to the
boat-mill, and welcome, but that would be the first place to which
they would come to find you. Now I have a friend--Lord forgive me for
abusing the word!--an acquaintance hereabouts, where you would be safe
enough from M. Lachaussée and his band; if they are not settled by
the Bièvre long before this. _Mais_----’
And Benoit shrugged his shoulders in most eloquent bewilderment.
‘Who and what is your acquaintance?’ said Louise.
‘Why, he calls himself a _professeur_, ma’amselle,’ replied Benoit;
‘but what he is just now is not quite so easily told. I have known him
already in the last half-dozen years as juggler, Bohemian, bravo,
cattle-doctor, rope-dancer, archer--ay, and courtier too. But courage!
It is but a trial.’
Louise paused, and Benoit proceeded towards the outlet of the vault or
cellar in which they stood, looking back to his pale charge when he
reached the stairs. The appeal of his honest open face was
irresistible, and Louise followed him. They ascended and found
themselves in a rude corridor. The filth and damp of years was thick
and clammy on the walls; and the dim light that struggled through the
narrow windows, scattered at random up and down, showed long passages
that branched from the _palier_ where they stood, lined with doors on
either side. Benoit, after looking about him for a moment as if to
recall his memory of the localities, struck down the one which faced
them.
They paused at the third door. Benoit raised his hand to knock, when
the sound of a woman’s voice within arrested it. Louise held her
breath and listened earnestly. Benoit turned and looked at her, as she
motioned with her hand that they should return towards the point from
whence they had come. But her guide shook his head, and, with a sort
of desperate grin, knocked loudly with the iron bar he still held in
his hand. The sounds within ceased, and a heavy step approached the
entrance. Benoit repeated his assault on the door.
‘Who knocks?’ said a shrill voice.
‘_Tsa tshen pal!_’[5] was Benoit’s reply.
The tongue in which he spoke was unintelligible to Louise, but the
words seemed to reassure the occupant of the room, who at once
proceeded to withdraw two heavy bolts, and gave admittance to Benoit
and his companion.
The person who opened the door now stood before them. He was a slender
well-proportioned man, in a close-fitting doublet and _chausses_ of
black serge. The sharp and angular features, the saffron complexion,
and large filmy black eye, showed the real gipsy blood. He looked at
Louise with a strange fixed stare, but it was impossible to read
anything in the gaze, either of astonishment or alarm.
‘Who is she?’ he asked shortly of Benoit, in the gipsy tongue.
‘A sister of mine,’ replied the Languedocian. ‘She needs shelter and
concealment for a while.’
‘She cannot have them here,’ was the answer.
‘By the _morro_[6] and the _lon_[7] she must,’ said Benoit calmly.
The man pointed to an inner door, and said--
‘There is a _ranee_[8] there already confided to my safe keeping.
What does your sister fear, that she comes here for safety?’
‘The pursuit of a grand seigneur of the court, who has taken a fancy
to her, and be hanged to him!’ said Benoit. ‘Come, it will be but for
a day or two--perhaps but for an hour. Remember we are brothers, and
the law of the Rommany binds you to help me.’
‘True,’ said the gipsy. He advanced towards Louise and, addressing her
in French, told her she could remain where she was so long as it
suited her convenience, but on one condition.
‘Name it,’ said Louise.
‘To pay no heed to what does not concern you,’ returned the other. ‘I
will give you a companion, who, if she amuses you as she has
entertained me, will make the time pass pleasantly enough.’
So saying, he opened the door leading to an inner room, and beckoned
her to follow.
From the squalor of the outer apartment Louise Gauthier was little
prepared for the scene which presented itself. The room into which
they passed was small, but furnished with a richness and elegance that
would have fitted a royal boudoir. The walls were painted with
flowers, and cupids sporting amidst them. Rich curtains of damask
almost covered the single window. Piles of cushions, fauteuils of
velvet and ormolu, costly tables, and a marble chimney-piece, with its
gay pendule, almost dazzled poor Louise; and it was not until she had
taken a rapid inventory of all these that she found the room contained
an inmate. A young girl, richly dressed, was half-sitting, half-lying
on a divan, in the darkest corner. It was Marotte Dupré--the actress
who had vainly implored Sainte-Croix, but a short time previously, to
rescue her from the Marquis of Brinvilliers. But she had apparently
become reconciled to her abduction, or feigned to be so, for, starting
gaily to her feet and springing forward, with a merry laugh, she
exclaimed--
‘Welcome, _mon preux gardien_! You have brought me a companion of my
own sex, to keep me company until the Marquis returns from the
Tuileries. Did you think I wanted one whilst you were here?’
And she threw a witching glance from her dark eye upon the gitano,
who, taking her hand, kissed it passionately.
‘She is a young girl, sister to a friend of mine,’ returned the man;
‘who seeks an asylum here for a time.’
‘We welcome her to our court,’ said the actress, with mock dignity,
extending her hand to Louise. ‘Sit by us, and tell us of your wishes,
hopes, sorrows--everything about you, in fact. And you, my cavalier,
dismiss that gentleman with the round face, who is gaping over your
shoulder. We would be alone with our new friend.’
The gipsy, thus addressed, turned to Benoit, and a rapid conversation
in the dialect of his tribe ensued between them. When it was over,
Benoit took Louise aside, and saying, ‘I will find a safer place for
you than this--fear nothing, I will return soon,’ left the room, in
company with the Bohemian.
‘Who is the other lady?’ asked Benoit as they quitted the apartment.
‘I don’t know, nor do I much care,’ replied the man. ‘She was brought
here by the Marquis de Brinvilliers, who was sent for to the Tuileries
almost the instant he arrived.’
‘Is she here against her will, then?’
‘Mass! I don’t know what to make of it. It seems that the Marquis was
nearly being set upon, in mistake, by his friend, Captain de
Sainte-Croix, for carrying her off.’
A hurried exclamation escaped Benoit’s lips.
‘Whereabouts?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Between the Captain’s lodgings and the Hotel d’Aubray, you may be
sure,’ was the reply.
Benoit heard no more; but hurriedly bidding his acquaintance farewell,
left the house. How he succeeded in his enterprise has been already
explained.
As the door of the room closed the manner of Marotte Dupré entirely
changed. Hastily and breathlessly drawing Louise to the window, she
whispered--
‘I am kept here by force and treachery. The gipsy is a creature of the
Marquis of Brinvilliers, who has carried me from the theatre. He is
absent for a while; and I am trying the force of my fascinations upon
my gaoler, the more readily to compass the means of escape. From whom
do you seek asylum here?’
‘I know not,’ said poor Louise, ‘who is my enemy. I do not believe
that Gaudin would ever----’
She was interrupted by Marotte. ‘Gaudin de Sainte-Croix?’
Louise assented.
‘Fear the worst,’ said her companion. ‘If Sainte-Croix is your
_friend_,’ and she laid an ironical expression on the word, ‘you are
indeed deserving of pity.’
Louise was about to speak, when a clamour in the street below
attracted their attention. Marotte uttered a cry of joy, and pointing
down the Rue d’Enfer, of which the window commanded a view, cried--
‘Look! look!--we are saved!--we are saved!’
Louise followed the direction of her finger, and saw a heavy and
magnificently decorated carriage, which, with its attendant lackeys,
had just drawn up at the miserable door of a house exactly opposite to
the one in which they were. A beautiful young woman, in rich costume,
descended from it, and entered the house. Marotte Dupré, with clasped
hands, followed her movements with intense anxiety.
‘There is not a moment to lose. _O mon Dieu!_’ she exclaimed as she
hastily drew some writing-tablets from her bosom, and, tearing out a
leaf, wrote a few lines upon it with marvellous rapidity. ‘Now--now!’
she continued, rolling it up into a ball. ‘Open the window!’
‘Alas!’ returned Louise, as she tried the hasp of the heavy casement;
‘it is secured. I cannot unfasten it.’
‘I have it!’ cried Marotte, whilst a sudden inspiration lighted up her
pale features; ‘my ring will open the glass.’
And drawing a diamond ring from her finger--the rich gift of some
_habitué_ of the Théâtre du Temple--she drew it around the pane,
and then with a gentle pressure forced the glass to yield without. Had
they broken it, the sound would have alarmed the gitano in the outer
room.
Their chamber was on the entresol; the street was narrow, and the
lackey of the carriage was nearly on a level with them. Marotte passed
her white arm carefully through the opening, and threw the writing
towards the lackey, accompanying the action by a low ‘Hist!’ But it
was not heard; and the little note, falling short of its aim, lay in
the mud of the street, yet still perceptible in the gleam of the lamps
on the carriage.
He was on the point of driving away, when a slight call from Marotte
attracted his attention. With some little difficulty he at last
perceived the note on the ground, and got down to seize it. Its
contents seemed to surprise him; for, after reading it, he passed into
the house which the lady had just entered. Marotte followed his
movements with feverish anxiety, and Louise caught the infection.
‘Who is that lady?’ she asked; ‘and what was the import of your note?’
‘It is Madame Scarron,’ returned Marotte; ‘the widow of my best
friend. She is now in high favour at the court. Oh! she is so good--so
kind. I wrote to implore her assistance to deliver us from this house;
and she will do it.’
At this moment the gitano returned. Marotte, with the skill of her
calling, rose to receive him. All trace of anxiety had disappeared
from her face, and she was radiant with smiles. Advancing to the man,
she exclaimed--
‘_Bien_, my gallant protector! You will not leave us to ourselves,
then?’
The gipsy’s dull eye dilated, and the large pupil flashed with a
strange light as he looked at the beautiful woman before him.
‘I cannot stay without and know that you are here,’ he replied. ‘I
love to hear you speak and to look at you.’
Louise shuddered at the tone in which he spoke. Marotte had risen;
and, while she stood half-turned from the window, threw a rapid glance
into the street. The next moment she seized a mandoline that lay on a
console of marble, and burst into a gay and jovial song, keeping time
to the measure with graceful and wild movements. The gipsy listened
with wide open eyes, and lips apart. He had no sight nor ears but for
his bewitching prisoner and her song. Louise comprehended Marotte’s
object. It was to cover the noise of footsteps and voices on the
staircase.
As she expected, a knock sounded at the door of the outer room. The
gipsy, with a half-spoken curse, turned his head in the direction of
the interruption, but did not stir from the spot as Marotte finished
her song.
‘It is Benoit returned,’ said Louise.
‘I hope it may be,’ said the gipsy. ‘I best like mademoiselle here to
be alone.’ And he left the room, without closing the door.
Louise’s remark was made in so natural a tone, that no suspicion
entered his mind. He did not even pause to ask who knocked, but
ushered in the stranger at once.
The tall and beautiful lady whom Louise had seen step from the
carriage entered the apartment, followed by four stout and well-armed
lackeys.
The gipsy, with the quickness of his tribe, saw his error; but it was
too late to repair it. Marotte and Louise, who had watched with
intense eagerness the opening of the door, rushed from the inner room,
and the former, throwing herself at the feet of Madame de Maintenon
(for Madame Scarron had lately received the lands and title of
Maintenon from the King) seized her hands, and kissing them, poured
forth mingled thanks and prayers. With that winning and grave
gentleness which belonged to her, the lady calmed her, and addressing
herself to Louise, said--
‘Marotte’s note tells me you too are in danger, and need a friend and
a refuge. Come with me, both of you.’
The gitano saw that resistance was useless. The lackeys clutched their
long batons in a style that showed it would take but little pressure
to make them use them. With all the suppleness of a true Bohemian, he
was profuse in his apologies to Madame de Maintenon, to Marotte, and
to Louise, and asked their witness to the kindness and civility of his
treatment towards them.
Madame de Maintenon cut short his protestations with a contemptuous
gesture, and bidding her lackeys mark the number of the house, and the
appearance of the gipsy, left the room, accompanied by her two
protegees.
Then mounting her carriage, she placed them opposite to her, and
giving the order to her attendants, ‘_A Vaugirard_’--they drove off
rapidly along the Rue d’Enfer.