NEWS FOR LOUISE GAUTHIER AND BENOIT
The outcry raised against Louise Gauthier as she left the ghastly
scene in the Carrefour du Châtelet had for the moment well-nigh
deprived her of her senses. She saw the man who had accused her of
being an _empoisonneuse_ and an accomplice of Madame de Brinvilliers,
thrown down by one of the crowd, and fearful that a desperate riot was
about to commence, she seized the opportunity which the confusion
afforded, and broke through the ring of the infuriated people who had
surrounded her, whilst their attention was diverted. But the person
who had come to her assistance followed her; and when a turn in the
street gave them an opportunity of escaping from the resistless
current of the mob, she discovered that it was a well-looking young
man to whom she had been indebted for her safety.
‘Pardon me, mademoiselle,’ exclaimed the student--for such by his
dress he appeared to be--raising his cap, ‘for introducing myself to
you thus hurriedly. Is your name Louise Gauthier?’
‘It is, monsieur,’ replied the Languedocian timidly.
‘And mine is Philippe Glazer,’ said the other. ‘Now we know one
another. I was sent to look after you by Benoit Mousel, who is at home
by this time. They lost you in the Rue des Lombards.’
‘How can I thank you for your interference?’ said Louise.
‘Thank our Lady rather, for the lucky chance that brought me to you at
such a moment. I despaired of seeing you in such a vast mob, although
Benoit has described you pretty closely. But come, we will find our
way to the quay.’
‘You know Benoit Mousel, then?’ said Louise, as they moved on
together.
‘Passably well, mademoiselle. I had him under my care for a while,
after he had been somewhat unceremoniously pitched out of a window at
the Hôtel de Cluny, during one of the merrymakings that M. de Lauzun
is accustomed to hold there whenever he is not in the Bastille.’
Louise Gauthier recollected the evening too well, and shuddered as she
recalled to mind its events. She did not speak again, but keeping
close to Philippe’s side, as if she feared a fresh attack from the
people about, kept on her way in silence towards the water-side.
They descended to one of the landing-places at the foot of the Pont
Notre Dame, and found the boat lying there, into which the student
assisted his companion, and then, with a few strokes of his powerful
arm, reached the boat-mill. There was a light in the chamber, and the
instant they touched the lighter Benoit and his wife appeared with a
flambeau, and broke forth into exclamations of joy at the return of
Louise.
In two minutes more the party were assembled in the room, to which the
reader has been already introduced. Bathilde bustled about, with her
usual good-tempered activity, to place the repast on the table; and
when all this was settled, she opened the door of the stove, to let
its warm light stream out over the room; and they then took their
places.
‘I need not make a secret of my mission, mademoiselle,’ said Philippe,
when they were seated; ‘for I presume there is nothing you would wish
to conceal from our friends.’
‘Because if there is, you know, Louise,’ said Benoit in continuation,
‘Bathilde and I will----’
‘Pray stop, _mon ami_,’ interrupted Louise; ‘what can I wish to keep
from you--you, who know everything, and have been so kind to me? Well,
monsieur?’ she added, looking anxiously at Philippe.
‘You know this writing,’ observed Philippe, as he handed her a small
packet sealed, and bearing an address.
Louise tremblingly took the parcel and looked at the superscription.
As she recognised it, she uttered a low cry of astonishment.
‘It is indeed _his_,’ she exclaimed, as she bowed her head down, and
allowed the parcel to drop in her lap. The next minute her tears were
falling quickly after one another upon it.
Bathilde took her hand kindly and pressed it as they watched her grief
in silence, which Philippe Glazer was the first to break.
‘I found that in Monsieur de Sainte-Croix’s escritoire,’ he said; ‘one
of the few things that Desgrais did not seize upon. I told him it was
mine, for I saw what they had discovered made mischief enough, and I
did not care to have it extended. It was only to-night I discovered by
chance that you were with Benoit and his wife.’
Tearfully, and with hesitating hands, Louise opened the packet, and
produced from its folds a document drawn up evidently in legal style,
and a small note, which she handed to Philippe.
‘Read it, monsieur,’ she said; ‘I cannot. How long it is since I have
seen that writing! I used to wait day after day for some message from
him, to show that I was not forgotten--if it had been but one
line--until my heart was sick with the vain expectation. And now it
has come; and--he is dead.’
The student took the note, and hastily ran his eye over it, before he
communicated its contents to the little party. Bathilde and Benoit
watched his face anxiously, as they saw it brighten whilst he scanned
the writings; it evidently contained no bad news. ‘Joy!’ he exclaimed,
as he finished it; ‘joy to all. I think I shall give up medicine and
take to farming.’
‘Go on, monsieur!’ exclaimed Benoit and his wife in a breath. ‘What is
it?’
‘The conveyance of a _terrain_ on the Orbe, in Languedoc,’ continued
Philippe, reading, ‘with a plantation of olives and mulberries to
Louise Gauthier, to be held by her in common with whomever may have
befriended her in Paris, and of which the necessary papers are in the
hands of M. Macé, notary, Rue de Provence, Beziers!’
‘I knew it!’ said Benoit, as he slapped the table with a vehemence
that sent some things jumping off it, after a few seconds of
astonishment. ‘I knew some day fortune would turn. Continue,
monsieur.’
Philippe Glazer proceeded to read the note, whilst Louise gazed at
him, almost bewildered.
‘“When you receive this,”’ he went on, ‘“I shall have expiated every
crime. I feel convinced that my death, come when it may, will be
violent and sudden: and whatever may have been my faults, I shall have
been punished for them. All I had to dispose of I have left you: in
possessing it, do not forget any that have assisted you. It has been
kept through every embarrassment to this end; but circumstances
prevented my giving it to you in my lifetime. Beware of the
Marchioness of Brinvilliers; forgive me for the misery I caused you,
which has been repaid one hundredfold, and forget, if possible,
‘“Gaudin de Sainte-Croix.
‘“To be delivered into the hands of Louise Gauthier, or, failing to
find her, of Benoit Mousel, at the mill-boat below the Pont Notre
Dame, in trust for her.”’
‘There,’ said Philippe, as he concluded, and put the papers on the
table; ‘my task is accomplished.’
‘I cannot accept it,’ said Louise after a short pause.
‘Cannot! mademoiselle,’ said the student; ‘you must. Better you take
it than it fall into M. Macé’s hands for want of a claimant; and from
him to a stranger, or the king, or any of his favourites.’
‘It would only be on one condition,’ continued the Languedocian. ‘That
Benoit and his wife shared it with me.’
‘_Pardieu!_ Louise; the terms are not hard,’ said Benoit: ‘and our
hard work will lighten the feeling of dependence. _Sacristie!_ a
chance of seeing Languedoc again, eh, Bathilde!’
‘And a farm,’ said his wife; ‘and olives, and mulberries--perhaps
chestnuts.’
‘And no more living by my wits,’ continued Benoit, ‘which are wearing
away from constant use, when the mill is out of work. No more
mountebanking nor singing songs, nor being pitched out of windows for
so doing, instead of being paid. Oh--you will go, Louise; we will all
go.’
‘And in a _patache_,’ said Bathilde, ‘with Jacquot to draw us: six
leagues a day at least! What shall be our first stage?’
‘There is plenty of time before you to settle that point,’ said
Philippe, smiling at the eager desire of Bathilde to leave Paris. Then
turning to Louise, he added, ‘You can have no scruples, now,
mademoiselle, about this bequest, were it only for the sake of these
good people. Think that it may not be so much to benefit yourself as
to render them happy. You consent?’
‘I do,’ replied Louise, after pausing a few seconds. ‘I cannot look
for happiness myself--at least, on earth--but through me they may
attain it. I care not how soon we quit this heartless, terrible
city--never to return.’
‘We will talk of that to-morrow,’ said Benoit. ‘I think enough has
taken place for this day. _Ventrebleu!_ what a whirl my head is in:
the river may rock the boat like a cradle, and the mill click all
night, before it sends me to sleep. You two women get to bed, and
Monsieur Glazer and myself will make ourselves comfortable here. I
would not recommend him to go along the quays so late, for the city is
in a troubled state to-night, and the execution has drawn all the
gallows-birds abroad.’
And as Louise and Bathilde retired, the two others drew to the fire,
and lighted mighty pipes, whose capacious bowls indicated a lengthy
sitting.