EXILI SPREADS THE SNARE FOR SAINTE-CROIX, WHO FALLS INTO IT
The tower of the Bastille, which the Under-Governor had designated
as the Tour du Nord upon Sainte-Croix’s arrival, was generally known
as the Tour de la Liberté, which title, from the mockery of the
appellation, was not in frequent use. The Bastille, it may be known,
consisted at that time of eight towers. Two of these--the Tour du
Trésor, so called because it was chosen as the depot of the wealth
amassed by the sagacious Sully for Henry IV., and the Tour de la
Chapelle, were the most ancient, and had formerly been merely the
towers which flanked the entrance to Paris by the Faubourg St.
Antoine. Subsequently the Tour de la Liberté and the Tour de la
Bertandière were added opposite to those just spoken of--the latter
being the one chosen, some centuries afterwards, as the prison of the
unfortunate ‘Man in the Iron Mask.’ The Tour de la Liberté was at
this early period the most northern elevation--hence its second name;
and the entrance to the city lay between those four towers, on the
spot where the huge cast of the elephant, intended for the fountain,
may be recollected by the visitor on the way to Père la Chaise. To
those four towers Charles VI. added four others; about 1383 chambers
were hewn in the thickness of the wall between them, drawbridges were
erected, a fosse dug around, and the Bastille was completed.
All these towers contained the cells for the prisoners; and as a
portion of our story must now necessarily pass in the Bastille, we
will call the attention of the reader to them; but briefly as
possible. In each tower were five ranges of cells. The lowest of
these, or _cachots_,[10] were the most horrible, receiving what
little light they had from the lower part of the fosse. The floor was
covered with a nauseous slime, perpetually oozing from the low grounds
around, and laden with rank and poisonous exhalations. Here noisome
reptiles--the toad, the lizard, and the rat, had their
homes--sweltering and crawling on the damp floor; from which the only
refuge allowed to the wretched prisoner was a species of bed, formed
by iron bars projecting from the wall, a few inches above the ground.
In many of these sinks, still greater misery was contrived for the
occupant. The lower part was a mere well, cut out in the form of an
inverted sugar-loaf, in which the prisoner was compelled to exist, so
that the feet found no level resting-place, nor could the body repose.
Next in order of the _chambres rigoureuses_, were the iron cages. They
were above the _cachots_, and were formed of small beams of wood
plated with iron, being about six feet square. The next were termed
the _calottes_. These chambers were the highest, being built in the
summit of the towers, and so contrived that the prisoner could only
stand upright exactly in the middle, and there was scarcely space in
them for the length of a bed, although the depth of the loopholes was
ten feet, being the thickness of the wall. These were small, admitting
very little light, which was farther excluded by two ranges of thick
iron bars, within and without. Being close to the roof, the heat of
the sun in summer was insupportable, converting them almost into
ovens; in winter the cold was equally terrible, since there was little
space for a fire. In these rooms the victims were usually confined who
were destined for the _oubliettes_--the wheels armed with cutting
points, which, turning round, drew the sufferer between them and cut
or tore him to pieces.
The intermediate chambers were somewhat more comfortable. They were
fourteen or fifteen feet high; and, although the windows were heavily
barred and counter-barred, were tolerably well lighted; whilst, from
some of them, views could be obtained of the boulevards and various
parts of the city. The rooms were generally numbered, and named after
the towers in which they were situated. The one that Gaudin de
Sainte-Croix now entered was the _Onzième Liberté_--and by the same
title was the occupant known during his sojourn in the prison.
The recognition, both on the part of Gaudin and Exili, was
instantaneous, and an expression of surprise burst from the lips of
the former as he discovered the falcon countenance of the physician.
But he directly recovered his composure, recollecting that the gaoler
was still in the room, and remained silent until Galouchet departed,
closing after him, one upon another, the three massy doors which,
covered with heavy locks, bolts, and iron studs, guarded each of the
chambers.
The first impression of Exili had been that some new punishment was in
store for him, upon seeing his late enemy enter, accompanied by the
functionary. But as the man left, and Gaudin, dashing his hat upon the
ground, threw himself in an old fauteuil at the foot of the pallet
destined for him, he perceived that he also was a prisoner. A savage
gleam of triumph passed across his livid countenance as he bade
Sainte-Croix welcome in a tone of mockery.
‘My prophecy has been speedily fulfilled,’ said Exili; ‘I gave you six
months--little more than thrice six hours have passed, and we meet
again. You may find good reason now to burn me as a sorcerer, when you
wish entirely to get rid of me.’
Gaudin smarted under the taunt; but his face betokened no trace of the
annoyance. He took the empty sheath of his sword, which still hung at
his side, and, smiling carelessly, played with the lace that was fixed
round his boot.
‘It is an odd rencontre,’ he said; ‘but you are no sorcerer, or you
would not have been here. On that score you are safe. We stand a
chance of being together for some time--perhaps we may become better
friends.’
‘Friends!’ replied Exili, with a short, dreary laugh. ‘Never: we are
not made of the stuff that can harbour such a dull sentiment.
Crime--purpose--common interest--might set up some tie between us; but
not friendship.’
‘I care not what you call it,’ said Gaudin; ‘our battle has become a
drawn game, and we must make the best of it. Yesterday I had _my_
revenge--to-night your turn has arrived. On the score of vengeance,
then, we are quits. At least towards each other,’ he added, after a
moment’s pause.
Exili had never taken his eyes from Sainte-Croix since he entered; his
piercing glance appeared to be scanning the thoughts that prompted
every word the other uttered. Gaudin’s last speech appeared to have
awakened fresh attention.
‘And to no one else?’ asked Exili emphatically, still looking fixedly
at him. ‘May I ask through whom you were sent here?’
‘Through the cause of all that can most wring and crush us, either in
this world or that which is to follow, for aught I know.’
‘A woman?’
‘Your divination is again right.’
‘And that woman is the Marchioness of Brinvilliers.’
‘I mentioned no name,’ said Sainte-Croix quickly.
‘You did not,’ replied Exili; ‘and yet I knew it. You cannot suppose
that I should remain ignorant of what has been the gossip of the shops
and _carrefours_ of Paris throughout many a fine spring afternoon this
year.’
‘Her husband never knew it,’ said Sainte-Croix, for the minute thrown
off his guard, and admitting the truth of what had been a random
venture on the part of Exili.
‘In such case the husband is always the last,’ returned the physician,
‘to credit his own dishonour. And yet it was not Antoine Gobelin who
sent you here.’
‘You are right once more,’ said Gaudin. ‘It was M. d’Aubray, the
lieutenant-civil, her father. Curses wither him!’
The features of Exili assumed an expression that was perfectly
fiendish, as he gazed upon Sainte-Croix, who was divesting himself of
his garments, and flinging them carelessly about the room here and
there, before lying down upon the truckle-bed. Not wishing to
extinguish the lamp, yet disliking the glare in his eyes, he had
removed it to the chimney-corner, near which was placed a rude table.
‘It is cold!’ he said, as he endeavoured to warm his hands before the
dying embers.
‘So I thought last night,’ said Exili; ‘but I am already inured to it.
It is, however, a different change for you, from the Hôtel d’Aubray.
I am used to strange apartments; and I have no lady-love who may play
me false during my imprisonment.’
A spasmodic tremor passed through Sainte-Croix’s frame; his hands were
clenched and his lip quivered. The convulsion was slight and rapid,
but it was observed by Exili. He went on.
‘It is annoying, too, to dream that others may share her affections
whilst you are imprisoned here. Her years are but few--her blood is
young and vivid. The Marquis, too, neglects her--so goes report in
Paris--and she must have some one to attach herself to.’
‘No more!--no more!’ cried Gaudin, with a sudden and violent outburst
of passion. ‘Fiend! demon! what drives you thus to madden me?’
‘These are harsh terms to christen me by,’ returned Exili, with a
ghastly smile; ‘especially when it is in my power to place in your
possession what you now desire above anything else the world could
bestow.’
‘And what is that?’ asked Gaudin, assuming an indifference through his
anger.
‘Vengeance!’ returned Exili, as he raised himself on the pallet, and
glared upon Sainte-Croix like a basilisk.
A scornful expression of contempt was Gaudin’s only reply.
But Exili saw that his prey was coquetting with the bait. He
continued--
‘There are dull moralists and fools who will tell you that revenge is
an ignoble passion, fitted only to those grovelling spirits who dare
not resent an injury, and yet are too sharply stung to pass it over.
Believe them not; it is a glorious triumph of retribution, although
the success of the cast will alone decide whether it will be called
justice or cowardice by the world. You are indebted for your present
position to Dreux d’Aubray; you burn for vengeance. If you fail the
world will call you pitiful, mean, _lâche_: succeed, and you become a
hero. Suppose I make that success certain!’
‘Pshaw! you are leading me on to some new toil,’ said Gaudin. ‘We are
powerless here; were we otherwise, I should mistrust you. This is no
place for bandying smooth phrases; nor are our relations towards each
other such as require them. You know my sentiments towards you.’ Then,
after a moment’s pause, he added, ‘What plan do you propose?’
‘As I expected,’ thought Exili; ‘his curiosity is aroused.’ ‘It is
full late,’ he continued aloud, as the sound of the bell vibrated
through the building from the Tour de la Chapelle. ‘To-morrow your
excitement will have somewhat abated, and all will be explained.
Doubtless your couch will prove a trifle harder than the one you have
been accustomed to. Good-night; and may _she_ visit you in your
dreams, for you will have little chance here of seeing her otherwise.’
And with this last observation, which had the full effect he intended,
the physician turned on his pallet and was soon asleep, or affected to
be so.
But it was long before Gaudin slumbered. The events of the evening
were in themselves enough to drive anything from his mind, and the
last conversation with Exili had added fresh wrath to the mingled
blaze of anger, jealousy, and impotent desire of revenge that consumed
him. At last the objects in the room imperceptibly faded from his
sight, or merged into the strange forms which his half-slumbering
senses conjured up; and in this state he lay for upwards of an hour,
with a consciousness of existence, but motionless and silent.
Suddenly he awoke--if it could be called awaking from a state that was
scarcely a sleep--and cast his eyes across the room towards the bed of
his companion. Exili was awake as well. He had raised himself in bed,
and, by the light of the lamp which still burned in the
chimney-corner, was staring fixedly at Sainte-Croix, with the same
riveting gaze he had before directed towards him. It was not the look
of human intent--a serpent would have fascinated a bird with the same
expression, until the victim fell into its yawning mouth. Gaudin
quailed before it--he knew not why; but there was something terrible
in the unclosed and glaring eyes of the physician, which almost
precluded him from inquiring what he desired.
‘You need not be alarmed,’ replied Exili, in an unconcerned tone.
‘Whatever my wishes might have been towards you yesternight, at all
events, you are safe _here_. I was attracted by that curious bauble
hanging round your neck. Where did you get it?’
He directed Sainte-Croix’s attention to a small gold heart, about the
size of a walnut, which hung round his neck, and which he had not laid
aside in divesting himself of his clothes for the night.
‘It is an amulet,’ said Gaudin, ‘and contains a charm against an evil
eye. I have heard it will also yield visions of the future. I never
put it on one side.’
As he spoke, he opened the heart in its centre, and took out a crystal
of a reddish colour, set in a circle of silver. Exili gazed at it
still more earnestly than before.
‘It is a beryl!’ he exclaimed.
‘Eyes less piercing than yours might tell that,’ replied Sainte-Croix.
‘Your fool affected to expose one for sale on the Carrefour du
Châtelet but a short time since.’
‘I will tell you more,’ continued Exili, still fixing his scrutinising
gaze upon the amulet. ‘The names of the four angels are graven round
it: they come in order thus--Uriel, Raphael, Michael, Gabriel. I have
seen that stone before. Where did you get it?’
‘It matters little to you,’ replied Gaudin; ‘suffice it to say it is
my own.’
‘And you did not read your arrest on its surface?’
‘I have kept it merely as a charm,’ answered Gaudin.
‘Then you have abused its power,’ continued Exili. ‘Listen! do you
hear the night wind howling round the towers of the Bastille and
rushing down the chimney of our apartment? To common ears it is but
the wind--a viewless thing that comes and goes, hurrying on around the
world until its force is spent and it dies in nothingness. To me it is
far otherwise,’ he continued, as his eyes blazed with unwonted fire,
and he raised his arm on high. ‘Each gust is laden with the wrath of
some damned spirit waiting to be called upon to make that beryl a
mirror of the future, and you neglect the appeal. Give me the stone,
and let me read the fate you care not to know.’
Gaudin gazed at Exili with fixed astonishment. The physician extended
his hand, and the other took the amulet from his neck and gave it to
him.
‘It is the same!’ exclaimed Exili with a smothered exclamation of
surprise, as he again looked intently at Gaudin. Then, fixing his eye
on the stone, he continued--
‘Its surface is dull. I can see forms moving on it, but they are
indistinct, and dance from before my sight like motes, all except your
own, and that remains. You may yet triumph.’
Gaudin was awed by the manner of Exili; at another time he would have
laughed his predictions to scorn, but the circumstances, the hour, and
the place, combined to make him think very seriously of his
companion’s remarks.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘I will reply by putting another question,’ said Exili; ‘where did you
get this mineral?’
‘I have had it many years; let that suffice. Now, I claim to know the
import of your speech.’
‘You may yet triumph,’ repeated the Italian; ‘and by my means alone. I
am not, you see, the enemy you thought me. Again, I say, wait until
to-morrow.’
‘Nay, to-night,’ exclaimed Sainte-Croix. ‘I beseech you tell me what
you mean.’
‘The charm may be broken,’ continued the other; ‘it is not yet time.’
The manner of the physician had worked upon Sainte-Croix’s curiosity
strangely. He again implored to know what the other alluded to.
‘To-night--now--this instant!’ he exclaimed.
‘I will gratify you,’ replied Exili. ‘To-morrow they will bring me my
chemical glasses from the boat-mill, together with such dull elements
as the ground yields--simple and harmless--in order, as they suppose,
that I may practise alchemy. Fools! they little know the change that
paltry lamp can work in innocuous earths.’
‘What do you propose to do?’ asked Sainte-Croix.
‘To put you in possession of all I know myself,’ continued Exili, ‘and
bring Marie de Brinvilliers once more near you, unquestioned,
undisturbed. Seek no further. The life and death of those you love or
hate shall be alike within your grasp. The destroying angel shall
become your slave, and go abroad, obedient to your will alone. Your
bosom should now harbour but one thought--and that must be revenge.’
Exili threw back the amulet to Sainte-Croix, and sank back on his
pillow; whilst Gaudin, finding he returned no reply to his questions,
once more sought to fly from himself, and the black thoughts that
haunted him, in sleep.