There was now a brief silence, during which Aramis never removed his
eyes from Baisemeaux for a moment. The latter seemed only half decided
to disturb himself thus in the middle of supper, and it was clear he was
trying to invent some pretext, whether good or bad, for delay, at any
rate till after dessert. And it appeared also that he had hit upon an
excuse at last.
“Eh! but it is impossible!” he cried.
“How impossible?” said Aramis. “Give me a glimpse of this
impossibility.”
“‘Tis impossible to set a prisoner at liberty at such an hour. Where can
he go to, a man so unacquainted with Paris?”
“He will find a place wherever he can.”
“You see, now, one might as well set a blind man free!”
“I have a carriage, and will take him wherever he wishes.”
“You have an answer for everything. Francois, tell monsieur le major to
go and open the cell of M. Seldon, No. 3, Bertaudiere.”
“Seldon!” exclaimed Aramis, very naturally. “You said Seldon, I think?”
“I said Seldon, of course. ‘Tis the name of the man they set free.”
“Oh! you mean to say Marchiali?” said Aramis.
“Marchiali? oh! yes, indeed. No, no, Seldon.”
“I think you are making a mistake, Monsieur Baisemeaux.”
“I have read the order.”
“And I also.”
“And I saw ‘Seldon’ in letters as large as that,” and Baisemeaux held up
his finger.
“And I read ‘Marchiali’ in characters as large as this,” said Aramis,
also holding up two fingers.
“To the proof; let us throw a light on the matter,” said Baisemeaux,
confident he was right. “There is the paper, you have only to read it.”
“I read ‘Marchiali,’” returned Aramis, spreading out the paper. “Look.”
Baisemeaux looked, and his arms dropped suddenly. “Yes, yes,” he said,
quite overwhelmed; “yes, Marchiali. ‘Tis plainly written Marchiali!
Quite true!”
“Ah!--”
“How? the man of whom we have talked so much? The man whom they are
every day telling me to take such care of?”
“There is ‘Marchiali,’” repeated the inflexible Aramis.
“I must own it, monseigneur. But I understand nothing about it.”
“You believe your eyes, at any rate.”
“To tell me very plainly there is ‘Marchiali.’”
“And in a good handwriting, too.”
“‘Tis a wonder! I still see this order and the name of Seldon, Irishman.
I see it. Ah! I even recollect that under this name there was a blot of
ink.”
“No, there is no ink; no, there is no blot.”
“Oh! but there was, though; I know it, because I rubbed my finger--this
very one--in the powder that was over the blot.”
“In a word, be it how it may, dear M. Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, “and
whatever you may have seen, the order is signed to release Marchiali,
blot or no blot.”
“The order is signed to release Marchiali,” replied Baisemeaux,
mechanically, endeavoring to regain his courage.
“And you are going to release this prisoner. If your heart dictates you
to deliver Seldon also, I declare to you I will not oppose it the least
in the world.” Aramis accompanied this remark with a smile, the irony of
which effectually dispelled Baisemeaux’s confusion of mind, and restored
his courage.
“Monseigneur,” he said, “this Marchiali is the very same prisoner whom
the other day a priest confessor of _our order_ came to visit in so
imperious and so secret a manner.”
“I don’t know that, monsieur,” replied the bishop.
“‘Tis no such long time ago, dear Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“It is true. But _with us_, monsieur, it is good that the man of to-day
should no longer know what the man of yesterday did.”
“In any case,” said Baisemeaux, “the visit of the Jesuit confessor must
have given happiness to this man.”
Aramis made no reply, but recommenced eating and drinking. As for
Baisemeaux, no longer touching anything that was on the table, he again
took up the order and examined it every way. This investigation, under
ordinary circumstances, would have made the ears of the impatient Aramis
burn with anger; but the bishop of Vannes did not become incensed for
so little, above all, when he had murmured to himself that to do so was
dangerous. “Are you going to release Marchiali?” he said. “What mellow,
fragrant and delicious sherry this is, my dear governor.”
“Monseigneur,” replied Baisemeaux, “I shall release the prisoner
Marchiali when I have summoned the courier who brought the order, and
above all, when, by interrogating him, I have satisfied myself.”
“The order is sealed, and the courier is ignorant of the contents. What
do you want to satisfy yourself about?”
“Be it so, monseigneur; but I shall send to the ministry, and M. de
Lyonne will either confirm or withdraw the order.”
“What is the good of all that?” asked Aramis, coldly.
“What good?”
“Yes; what is your object, I ask?”
“The object of never deceiving oneself, monseigneur; nor being wanting
in the respect which a subaltern owes to his superior officers, nor
infringing the duties of a service one has accepted of one’s own free
will.”
“Very good; you have just spoken so eloquently, that I cannot but admire
you. It is true that a subaltern owes respect to his superiors; he
is guilty when he deceives himself, and he should be punished if he
infringed either the duties or laws of his office.”
Baisemeaux looked at the bishop with astonishment.
“It follows,” pursued Aramis, “that you are going to ask advice, to put
your conscience at ease in the matter?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“And if a superior officer gives you orders, you will obey?”
“Never doubt it, monseigneur.”
“You know the king’s signature well, M. de Baisemeaux?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Is it not on this order of release?”
“It is true, but it may--”
“Be forged, you mean?”
“That is evident, monseigneur.”
“You are right. And that of M. de Lyonne?”
“I see it plain enough on the order; but for the same reason that the
king’s signature may have been forged, so also, and with even greater
probability, may M. de Lyonne’s.”
“Your logic has the stride of a giant, M. de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis;
“and your reasoning is irresistible. But on what special grounds do you
base your idea that these signatures are false?”
“On this: the absence of counter-signatures. Nothing checks his
majesty’s signature; and M. de Lyonne is not there to tell me he has
signed.”
“Well, Monsieur de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, bending an eagle glance on
the governor, “I adopt so frankly your doubts, and your mode of clearing
them up, that I will take a pen, if you will give me one.”
Baisemeaux gave him a pen.
“And a sheet of white paper,” added Aramis.
Baisemeaux handed him some paper.
“Now, I--I, also--I, here present--incontestably, I--am going to write
an order to which I am certain you will give credence, incredulous as
you are!”
Baisemeaux turned pale at this icy assurance of manner. It seemed to
him that the voice of the bishop’s, but just now so playful and gay, had
become funereal and sad; that the wax lights changed into the tapers of
a mortuary chapel, the very glasses of wine into chalices of blood.
Aramis took a pen and wrote. Baisemeaux, in terror, read over his
shoulder.
“A. M. D. G.,” wrote the bishop; and he drew a cross under these four
letters, which signify _ad majorem Dei gloriam_, “to the greater glory
of God;” and thus he continued: “It is our pleasure that the order
brought to M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun, governor, for the king, of
the castle of the Bastile, be held by him good and effectual, and be
immediately carried into operation.”
(Signed) D’HERBLAY
“General of the Order, by the grace of God.”
Baisemeaux was so profoundly astonished, that his features remained
contracted, his lips parted, and his eyes fixed. He did not move an
inch, nor articulate a sound. Nothing could be heard in that large
chamber but the wing-whisper of a little moth, which was fluttering to
its death about the candles. Aramis, without even deigning to look at
the man whom he had reduced to so miserable a condition, drew from his
pocket a small case of black wax; he sealed the letter, and stamped it
with a seal suspended at his breast, beneath his doublet, and when the
operation was concluded, presented--still in silence--the missive to M.
de Baisemeaux. The latter, whose hands trembled in a manner to excite
pity, turned a dull and meaningless gaze upon the letter. A last gleam
of feeling played over his features, and he fell, as if thunder-struck,
on a chair.
“Come, come,” said Aramis, after a long silence, during which the
governor of the Bastile had slowly recovered his senses, “do not lead
me to believe, dear Baisemeaux, that the presence of the general of the
order is as terrible as His, and that men die merely from having seen
Him. Take courage, rouse yourself; give me your hand--obey.”
Baisemeaux, reassured, if not satisfied, obeyed, kissed Aramis’s hand,
and rose. “Immediately?” he murmured.
“Oh, there is no pressing haste, my host; take your place again, and do
the honors over this beautiful dessert.”
“Monseigneur, I shall never recover such a shock as this; I who have
laughed, who have jested with you! I who have dared to treat you on a
footing of equality!”
“Say nothing about it, old comrade,” replied the bishop, who perceived
how strained the cord was and how dangerous it would have been to break
it; “say nothing about it. Let us each live in our own way; to you,
my protection and my friendship; to me, your obedience. Having exactly
fulfilled these two requirements, let us live happily.”
Baisemeaux reflected; he perceived, at a glance, the consequence of this
withdrawal of a prisoner by means of a forged order; and, putting in the
scale the guarantee offered him by the official order of the general,
did not consider it of any value.
Aramis divined this. “My dear Baisemeaux,” said he, “you are a
simpleton. Lose this habit of reflection when I give myself the trouble
to think for you.”
And at another gesture he made, Baisemeaux bowed again. “How shall I set
about it?” he said.
“What is the process for releasing a prisoner?”
“I have the regulations.”
“Well, then, follow the regulations, my friend.”
“I go with my major to the prisoner’s room, and conduct him, if he is a
personage of importance.”
“But this Marchiali is not an important personage,” said Aramis
carelessly.
“I don’t know,” answered the governor, as if he would have said, “It is
for you to instruct me.”
“Then if you don’t know it, I am right; so act towards Marchiali as you
act towards one of obscure station.”
“Good; the regulations so provide. They are to the effect that the
turnkey, or one of the lower officials, shall bring the prisoner before
the governor, in the office.”
“Well, ‘tis very wise, that; and then?”
“Then we return to the prisoner the valuables he wore at the time of his
imprisonment, his clothes and papers, if the minister’s orders have not
otherwise dictated.”
“What was the minister’s order as to this Marchiali?”
“Nothing; for the unhappy man arrived here without jewels, without
papers, and almost without clothes.”
“See how simple, then, all is. Indeed, Baisemeaux, you make a mountain
of everything. Remain here, and make them bring the prisoner to the
governor’s house.”
Baisemeaux obeyed. He summoned his lieutenant, and gave him an order,
which the latter passed on, without disturbing himself about it, to the
next whom it concerned.
Half an hour afterwards they heard a gate shut in the court; it was the
door to the dungeon, which had just rendered up its prey to the free
air. Aramis blew out all the candles which lighted the room but one,
which he left burning behind the door. This flickering glare prevented
the sight from resting steadily on any object. It multiplied tenfold the
changing forms and shadows of the place, by its wavering uncertainty.
Steps drew near.
“Go and meet your men,” said Aramis to Baisemeaux.
The governor obeyed. The sergeant and turnkeys disappeared. Baisemeaux
re-entered, followed by a prisoner. Aramis had placed himself in the
shade; he saw without being seen. Baisemeaux, in an agitated tone of
voice, made the young man acquainted with the order which set him at
liberty. The prisoner listened, without making a single gesture or
saying a word.
“You will swear [‘tis the regulation that requires it),” added the
governor, “never to reveal anything that you have seen or heard in the
Bastile.”
The prisoner perceived a crucifix; he stretched out his hands and swore
with his lips. “And now, monsieur, you are free. Whither do you intend
going?”
The prisoner turned his head, as if looking behind him for some
protection, on which he ought to rely. Then was it that Aramis came out
of the shade: “I am here,” he said, “to render the gentleman whatever
service he may please to ask.”
The prisoner slightly reddened, and, without hesitation, passed his arm
through that of Aramis. “God have you in his holy keeping,” he said, in
a voice the firmness of which made the governor tremble as much as the
form of the blessing astonished him.
Aramis, on shaking hands with Baisemeaux, said to him; “Does my order
trouble you? Do you fear their finding it here, should they come to
search?”
“I desire to keep it, monseigneur,” said Baisemeaux. “If they found it
here, it would be a certain indication I should be lost, and in that
case you would be a powerful and a last auxiliary for me.”
“Being your accomplice, you mean?” answered Aramis, shrugging his
shoulders. “Adieu, Baisemeaux,” said he.
The horses were in waiting, making each rusty spring reverberate the
carriage again with their impatience. Baisemeaux accompanied the bishop
to the bottom of the steps. Aramis caused his companion to mount before
him, then followed, and without giving the driver any further order, “Go
on,” said he. The carriage rattled over the pavement of the courtyard.
An officer with a torch went before the horses, and gave orders at
every post to let them pass. During the time taken in opening all the
barriers, Aramis barely breathed, and you might have heard his “sealed
heart knock against his ribs.” The prisoner, buried in a corner of the
carriage, made no more sign of life than his companion. At length, a
jolt more sever than the others announced to them that they had cleared
the last watercourse. Behind the carriage closed the last gate, that
in the Rue St. Antoine. No more walls either on the right or the left;
heaven everywhere, liberty everywhere, and life everywhere. The horses,
kept in check by a vigorous hand, went quietly as far as the middle of
the faubourg. There they began to trot. Little by little, whether they
were warming to their work, or whether they were urged, they gained in
swiftness, and once past Bercy, the carriage seemed to fly, so great was
the ardor of the coursers. The horses galloped thus as far as Villeneuve
St. George’s, where relays were waiting. Then four instead of two
whirled the carriage away in the direction of Melun, and pulled up for
a moment in the middle of the forest of Senart. No doubt the order had
been given the postilion beforehand, for Aramis had no occasion even to
make a sign.
“What is the matter?” asked the prisoner, as if waking from a long
dream.
“The matter is, monseigneur,” said Aramis, “that before going further,
it is necessary your royal highness and I should converse.”
“I will await an opportunity, monsieur,” answered the young prince.
“We could not have a better, monseigneur. We are in the middle of a
forest, and no one can hear us.”
“The postilion?”
“The postilion of this relay is deaf and dumb, monseigneur.”
“I am at your service, M. d’Herblay.”
“Is it your pleasure to remain in the carriage?”
“Yes; we are comfortably seated, and I like this carriage, for it has
restored me to liberty.”
“Wait, monseigneur; there is yet a precaution to be taken.”
“What?”
“We are here on the highway; cavaliers or carriages traveling
like ourselves might pass, and seeing us stopping, deem us in some
difficulty. Let us avoid offers of assistance, which would embarrass
us.”
“Give the postilion orders to conceal the carriage in one of the side
avenues.”
“‘Tis exactly what I wished to do, monseigneur.”
Aramis made a sign to the deaf and dumb driver of the carriage, whom
he touched on the arm. The latter dismounted, took the leaders by the
bridle, and led them over the velvet sward and the mossy grass of a
winding alley, at the bottom of which, on this moonless night, the deep
shades formed a curtain blacker than ink. This done, the man lay down
on a slope near his horses, who, on either side, kept nibbling the young
oak shoots.
“I am listening,” said the young prince to Aramis; “but what are you
doing there?”
“I am disarming myself of my pistols, of which we have no further need,
monseigneur.”