Containing a journey, a discovery, and a strange sight.
I have known some persons in the world who, gliding quietly through
life, have floated on upon the stream of time, like a boat on the waters
of a broad and tranquil river, carried on by the unruffled tide of
prosperity, and lighted to their journey's end by the cloudless sun of
happiness. And I have met with others, whose star seemed to rise in
clouds, to hold its course through storms, and to set in blacker
darkness than that which gave it birth. But long continued joy loses its
first zest, and uninterrupted sorrow its first poignancy; habit robs
even misery of its acuteness; and care that is long endured, brings
along with it the power of longer endurance. It is the sudden
transition from joy to sorrow, that is the acme of human suffering,
adding the bitterness of regret for past enjoyment to all the pangs of
present distress.
It was thus with Claude de Blenau. All his wishes had been nearly
fulfilled; Hope had almost grown into certainty; Pauline was almost his
own; when he was snatched from the bosom of joy and security to new
scenes of misery and danger. The few last hours came back to his memory
like one of those bright visions that sometimes visit our slumber, with
every part so truly told, so faithfully drawn, that they become too like
reality, and then, when our hearts are full of scenes that we have
loved, and pleasures that we have lost, the pageant fades, and we find
it but a dream.
When once he had torn himself from Pauline, the objects round him called
forth little of De Blenau's attention; and the carriage in which he was
placed rolled on for many leagues, before he had sufficiently recovered
his tranquillity even to think of the minor points of his situation. The
moon, which at their departure shone bright and clear on the broad
masses of the forest, had by this time sunk below the horizon; the
darkness which had followed her decline had also passed away; the grey
streaks of dawn had warmed into the bright blushes of the early morning,
and the new-risen sun began to look over a dewy world, that awoke
sparkling and smiling, as if for joy at his approach. But the scene
which, at any other time, would have called up a thousand remembrances
of the happy days and hunter sports of his youth, scarcely now roused
him from the reverie in which he was plunged; and if he looked round, or
spoke to the person who conducted him, it was merely to ascertain in
what direction they were going, or what was the ultimate destination of
their journey. Never before had he so completely abandoned himself to
despondency; but as a second and third day passed, he began to recover
from the first bitterness of his feelings, and endeavoured to draw from
the Officer the precise crime with which he was charged, and what
circumstances of suspicion had arisen against him. But no farther
information was to be procured. The Officer continued firm in the same
story he had told the Queen--that his orders were to conduct him to
Tarascon, and that he was quite ignorant of the circumstances which led
to his arrest. And with this De Blenau was obliged to be satisfied.
During the journey the Officer showed much civility and attention to the
prisoner, though he took good care to place a guard at the door of his
chamber when they stopped for the night, which was always at the house
of one of those private agents of the Government, already mentioned,
with whose dwellings the officers of the Cardinal's guard were generally
acquainted. After proceeding, however, for several days, he plainly
perceived that nothing could be farther from De Blenau's thoughts than
any plan for making his escape, and, in consequence, the watch he kept
over his prisoner became far less strict, which afforded the Count many
opportunities of communicating freely with the persons at the various
places where they stopped for horses or refreshment.
The arrest of Cinq Mars and several others, with the full restoration of
the Cardinal's power, was at that moment, in France, one of those topics
of wonder and interest, which seem necessary from time to time to keep
up the spirits of the gossiping classes of society; and though the good
folks at inns and elsewhere found the appearance of a prisoner, escorted
by a body of the Cardinal's guard, to act as a great check upon their
natural loquacity; yet, as the officer was somewhat of a _bon vivant_,
and rather attached to his bottle, the awe inspired by his functions was
not so strong as to prevent the news of the Grand Ecuyer's misfortune
from reaching the ears of De Blenau, who easily concluded that, from
their well-known intimacy, suspicion had fallen upon himself.
The prisoner and his conductors at length began to approach that part of
the country where the re-established Minister held his court, to which
all his old retainers and friends were now flocking, together with many
others, who, led by hope or impelled by fear, hastened to offer their
servile adulation to a man they in general detested. The roads were thus
thronged with people, and many a gay cavalcade passed by the carriage in
which De Blenau was borne along, the horsemen looking for a moment into
the vehicle out of curiosity, but quickly turning away their eyes again,
lest they should be obliged to acknowledge some acquaintance with a
person who had fallen under the Cardinal's displeasure.
It was night when they arrived at Montolieu, and De Blenau asked his
conductor if he intended to stop there till morning.
"No, Monsieur le Comte," replied the Officer; "we must proceed as
speedily as possible to Mirepoix, where I expect orders for my farther
conduct."
"Then you go to Tarascon, in the Pyrenees," said De Blenau. "I thought
his Eminence was at the city of that name by the banks of the Rhone,
opposite Beaucaire."
"He was there some time ago," replied the Officer; "but he has since
gone to the mountains, where, doctors say, there are waters which have
great virtues in sickness like his. For my part, I always thought the
springs there very bad, and neither fit for man nor beast. But,
nevertheless, we must hasten on, Sir."
The next place they stopped at was Corneille; and, according to his
custom, the Officer remained with De Blenau in the carriage, while the
troopers arranged every thing that was necessary for proceeding on their
journey. There seemed, however, to be a considerable bustle amongst the
men; and after waiting patiently for a few minutes, the Officer drew
back the curtain, and thrusting his head from the window, inquired the
cause of delay? The answer he received, imported that no fresh horses
could be procured, and that those which had drawn them so far were
incapable of proceeding even to the next town. "How happens it that
there are no horses?" demanded he impatiently; "there ought always to be
horses reserved for the use of the Government." To this it was replied,
that so many people had passed to the court at Tarascon, that every
horse which could be hired, even at an exorbitant price, had been
carried away.
The Officer paused, as if doubting what course to pursue; but there
being no remedy, he was obliged to alight, in order to pass the night at
Corneille; taking care, however, to despatch one of the troopers to
Mirepoix, to bring any orders which might be waiting for him in that
town.
The moon was up, and as De Blenau descended from the carriage, he
perceived a little stream dashing and glistening over the wheel of a
mill, that stood dark and defined against the moonlight sky. It was to
this they were apparently proceeding; and as they approached nearer,
there was seen an irregular part of the building projecting from the
rest, which seemed appropriated to the particular use of the Miller. At
the same time, on a wooden staircase, which wound up the outside of the
house, appeared a man, holding a light, and habited in one of those
dusty jackets, which have been the insignia of flour-grinders from all
generations. At the moment I speak of, he was holding a conversation
with one of the troopers, and, by his quick articulation and busy
gestures, seemed engaged in making remonstrances, without any great
effect.
"What does he say?" exclaimed the Officer, who caught a few words of
their conversation as he got out of the carriage. "That we cannot stop
here the night? Give him a cuff of the head, Joly, to teach him better
manners to the Cardinal's guard. By Heavens! he shall find me horses
to-night, or he shall lodge me till to-morrow!"
"Stay if you will, Sir Officer," rejoined the Miller, raising his
voice--"but I tell you that you ought not to stay; and as for laying a
finger on me--you know I serve the Cardinal as well as you, and you dare
not!"
"Dare not!" cried the Officer, who was by this time mounting the
stairs, catching the Miller by the collar, and striking him a slight
blow--"You are a refractory rascal, Sir!--Open the door of your house,
or I will throw you over the staircase.--Come, Monsieur de Blenau,
follow me."
The Miller offered no resistance, but threw wide the door, and let the
Officer pass in. De Blenau came next, having taken little notice of the
altercation; but as he went by the Miller, who held the door open, he
heard him mutter to himself in an under voice, "He shall pay for it with
his blood," in a deep bitter tone of determined hatred, that made the
Count turn round, expecting to see the ferocious countenance of an
assassin. Nothing, however, could be more different from the appearance
of the speaker, who was a smooth, pale-faced man, whose look expressed
little besides peaceful tranquillity and patient resignation.
The room into which they entered was a large uncouth chamber, filled
with various articles of household furniture, the unusual assemblage of
which showed that it was used for most of the different purposes of
life. There was a bed in one corner, with a large screen, or paravent,
half drawn before it. Beside the fire hung a row of copper saucepans
and cooking utensils; round about were several saddles, and other pieces
of horse furniture; and in the centre was a large table, with two or
three half-emptied bottles and some glasses, which bore marks of having
been recently used; and at the same time a long bench was placed at one
side of the table, with three single seats on the other.
On the opposite side of the apartment was a wooden partition, evidently
new, which seemed to separate what had once been one large chamber into
two, with a door of communication between them.
"Oh, ho! Monsieur Godefroy!" exclaimed the Officer, looking at the
table, and then turning a significant glance to the Miller. "So, you
have been carousing, and did not like to let us share in your good
cheer. But come, we will not be sent away like a dog without his dinner.
Let us taste your Burgundy; and if you were to lay three of those plump
_boudins_ upon the fire, they might savour the wine."
"You are very welcome, Sir Officer, to any thing the house affords,"
replied the Miller, neither civilly nor sulkily. "Help yourself to the
_boudins_, while I go down for the wine."
"They say in my province, Monsieur de Blenau," said the Officer, placing
a seat for the prisoner near the fire, "_Qui dort dine, et qui fait
l'amour soupe_. Now, as we have neither slept nor dined, and have no one
to make love to, let us sup, at least."
De Blenau's only reply was, that he had no appetite; which seemed
considerably to surprise the Officer, who, as soon as the Miller had
brought in the wine, and his supper was ready, fell to with no small
eagerness, and did not leave off till he had transferred the greater
part of the trencher's contents to his stomach. The Miller seemed more
inclined to follow the Officer's example than De Blenau; and his anger
having apparently subsided, he pressed his guest to continue the meal in
so sociable and friendly a manner, that De Blenau could scarcely
conceive that the words he had heard as he entered, had been any thing
but the effect of momentary irritation. But shortly after he had again
cause to alter his opinion; the eagerness with which the Miller invited
his companion to drink, producing bottle after bottle of different
wines, generally denied by their price to persons in his station of
life; and the subdued glance of triumph with which he viewed the
various stages of intoxication at which the Officer gradually arrived,
caught De Blenau's attention, and excited his suspicion. However, the
vengeance, which the Miller meditated, was of a very different nature
from that which the Count imagined. Nothing which could, by any chance,
recoil upon himself ever entered his thoughts, and his plan reached no
farther than to render the man who had offended him, deeply culpable in
the eyes of Richelieu, thus calling upon his head that relentless anger
which would be much more effectual vengeance than any punishment he
could himself inflict.
Two or three hours had passed in this manner, during which time the
Officer had made various efforts to resist the fascination of the
bottle, often pushing it away from him, as if resolved not to taste
another drop, and then again, as he became heated in conversation,
drawing it back and filling his glass with an almost unconscious hand,
when the sound of a horse's feet was heard without, and starting up, he
declared that it was news from Mirepoix, and staggered towards the door.
The moment he had quitted the room, the Miller approached De Blenau,
glanced his eyes round the chamber, and then addressed him in a
whisper. "What a moment," said he, "for a prisoner to make his escape,
while that drunkard's senses are confused with wine!"
De Blenau started at the suddenness of the proposal, and eyed his
companion with an inquiring glance. "If you allude to me," he replied at
length, "I thank you, but I have no thought of escaping."
"You have not!" said the Miller, apparently surprised. He thought for a
moment, and then added--"Oh, you reckon on your innocence. But let me
tell you, Sir Count, that there is both danger and uncomfort in a long
imprisonment."
"I know it," answered De Blenau; "but I would rather submit to both,
than cast a suspicion on my honour and my innocence, by attempting to
fly."
This was a sort of reasoning the other did not understand; and his lip
curled with a slight expression of contempt, which would have showed
itself more visibly, had not De Blenau's rank, though a prisoner, kept
the _bourgeois_ in awe. He turned away, however, seemingly with the
intention of quitting the room; but when he got to the other side, he
paused, laid his hand upon his brow, and after thinking for a moment,
again came back to De Blenau. "I advised you for your own good,
Monsieur le Comte," he said; "and though you will not escape from the
dangers of accusation, I will give you the means of proving your
innocence. In that room," and he pointed to the small door in the
partition, "you will discover two packets of papers exactly similar:
take either of them, and in that you will find enough to disprove all
that your enemies will say against you."
"But," said De Blenau, "what right have I to possess myself of papers
belonging, probably, to another?"
"Pshaw!" cried the Miller, "one would think that your neck itched for
the axe! Are you not in my house? Do not I bid you take them? Of course,
you will not betray me to the Government; but take the papers, for I
give them to you." And making a sign to De Blenau to use all speed, he
went to the door which opened on the road. Before he passed it, however,
he turned to the prisoner once more and cautioned him to make no noise,
nor regard any thing else in the room, but after having taken one of the
packets from the table on which they were placed, to quit it as speedily
as possible. The precaution, however, was useless; for before De Blenau
had even time to determine upon any line of conduct, the Officer again
entered the room, and, balancing himself as well as he could, contrived
to arrive at the table after many a zig-zag and many a halt. He had
precisely reached that pitch of intoxication, when a man, having for
some time suspected that he is tipsy, finds out that such a supposition
was entirely a mistake, and that he never was more sober, or more in his
senses in his life: consequently, he had not the slightest objection to
drink a bottle of the _vin de Saint Peret_, which the miller set before
him; although the Burgundy he had already imbibed had very considerably
dulled his perception, and detracted from his locomotive power. The
wine, as it creamed and sparkled in his glass, was raised to his head
with increased difficulty at every renewed draught; and at last, feeling
something the matter with him he knew not what, he started from the
table, made an effort to reach a chair by the fire, but receiving
instantly internal conviction of the impossibility of the attempt, he
cast himself upon the bed behind the screen, which happened to be nearer
at hand, and in a few minutes all his senses were steeped in oblivion.
Immediately the Miller raised his hand, pointed to the door in the
partition, and left the apartment as if unwilling to witness what was to
follow.
De Blenau paused for a moment to reflect on this man's conduct; but
however extraordinary it might be, he could see nothing to prevent his
possessing himself of papers which, he was assured, would prove his
innocence of the crimes with which he was charged--a thing not always
easy to the most guiltless. Accordingly, rising from his seat, he passed
by the bed where the Officer lay snoring in the fulness of ebriety, and
opened the door in the partition to which he had been directed. The room
with which it communicated was small, and dimly lighted by a lamp that
stood flickering on a table, as if it scarcely knew whether to go out or
not. Near the lamp lay various implements for writing, together with two
papers, one folded up and marked, the other open, and seemingly hardly
finished. Around were scattered various basnets and vials, which
appeared to contain the medicaments for a sick man; and on one of the
chairs was thrown a long sword, together with a poniard and a brace of
pistols.
De Blenau advanced to the table, and taking up the open paper, ran his
eye hastily over its contents. In so doing, his own name met his sight;
and forgetting the caution he had received, to make speed and quit the
apartment as soon as he had possessed himself of it, he could not
refrain from reading on:--"With regard to Monsieur the Count de Blenau,"
the paper proceeded, "the prisoner feels perfectly convinced that he was
always ignorant of the treaty and the designs of the conspirators. For,
Monsieur de Cinq Mars particularly warned him (the prisoner) never to
mention the circumstance before the Count, because that he was not to be
made acquainted therewith; and moreover----"
As De Blenau read, a deep groan came upon his ear, evidently proceeding
from some one in the same room with himself, and, holding up the lamp,
he endeavoured to discover who it was that had uttered it; but in
lifting it suddenly, the feeble light was at once extinguished, and the
whole chamber remained in darkness, except where a gleam came through
the doorway of the other room.
"Godefroy! Godefroy!" exclaimed a faint voice, "do not put out the
light--why have you left me so long?--I am dying, I am sure I am
dying."
"I will bring another light," said the Count, "and be with you
instantly." And forgetting, in the hurry of the moment, his peculiar
situation, and the caution which ought to have accompanied it, he
hastened into the other apartment, where the Officer still lay
undisturbed in his drunken slumbers, and taking one of the rosin candles
from the table, returned to give what succour he could to the person
whose faint voice he had heard.
On re-entering the chamber with the stronger light which he now brought,
his eyes fell upon the drawn curtains of an alcove bed at the farther
extremity; and approaching quickly, he pulled them back, shading the
candle as well as he could, to prevent its glare from offending the eyes
of the sick person.
But his precaution was in vain. Light and darkness had become the same
to the pale inanimate form before him. De Blenau saw that, during the
moment of his absence, being had passed away; and holding the light
nearer to the bed, he thought he could trace, in the disfigured
countenance that lay in ashy paleness upon the pillow, the features of
the Grand Ecuyer's Italian lute-player, Villa Grande.
He was engaged in examining them more attentively, when some one
silently laid their hand upon his arm, and turning quickly round, he
beheld Chavigni, while the countenance of the Miller appeared in the
doorway, very little less pale than that of the dead man. De Blenau's
first impulse was to point to the dead man, while his eyes rested on the
countenance of Chavigni, in which a slight degree of agitation showed
itself for a moment, and then disappeared.
"So!" said the Statesman, regarding the lifeless body of Villa Grande,
"he is dead, poor wretch!--Gone on that uncertain journey which lies
before us all, like a land covered with a thick mist, whose paths, or
whose termination, none of us can discover.--But to matters of life and
moment," he continued. "What do you here, Monsieur de Blenau?"
"I should suppose, Sir, that you are better acquainted with the object
of my journey than I am myself," replied the Count. "You must be well
aware it was undertaken against my will."
"You have mistaken me, Sir," said Chavigni. "The end of your journey
hither, I am well aware of. But how came you in this chamber? What do
you with that paper which is in your hand? I expect a straightforward
answer."
"Did I give you any, Sir," replied De Blenau, "my answer should be
straightforward. But you ought to have known me better than so proudly
to demand a reply, when you are unentitled to interrogate me. Being a
prisoner, I must be guarded as such, though I tell you at once I have no
intention of trying to escape; and being defenceless, you may take these
papers from me, though they are material proofs of my innocence.
However, I will rely upon your justice,--upon your honour,--that
whatever charges be brought against me, the confession of this man may
be opposed to them in my justification."
"Monsieur de Blenau," replied Chavigni, "I wish you would sometimes give
me an excuse for doubting your sincerity; for then I could see the fate
which is like to betide you, without regret. When you were liberated
from the Bastille, I told you that the eye of an angry man was upon you,
and warned you as a friend to avoid all cause for suspicion. The
Minister has never forgotten you. You were the first who brought a
shadow over his dominion--I hope, therefore, that your innocence can be
proved beyond a doubt; for mercy or tenderness between you and the
Cardinal are out of the question. Nevertheless, I cannot let you keep
this paper, which belongs to the Council; but I will take care that any
thing which it contains in your favour shall not be lost. In the mean
while I shall be obliged to send you to Lyons; and Heaven speed you as
safely out of this scrape as out of the last."
"If perfect innocence of any crime towards the State can save me," said
De Blenau, following Chavigni into the outer room, "I have nothing to
fear."
"I hope it is so," replied the Statesman. "And now," he continued,
turning to the Miller, "let me tell you, Master Godefroy, that you are
highly culpable yourself, for leaving a State prisoner wholly without
guard when you saw the Officer, in whose custody he was, in such a
state as this. Make no excuses, Sir--it shall be remembered."
Chavigni now approached the drunken man, and tried to rouse him; but
finding it in vain, he called in the Sergeant, and writing a few words
for his warranty, ordered him to conduct the Officer, next morning, to
Tarascon under arrest.
"Monsieur de Blenau," he continued, turning to the Count, "you will do
me the favour of accompanying me to Montolieu. The horses attached to my
carriage are fresher than those which drew you."
The promptitude with which Chavigni's orders were given, brought all the
preparations to a rapid conclusion. A few minutes sufficed him to issue
the necessary commands for transferring the baggage which had been
brought with De Blenau to the other carriage; and adding a few clear
rapid directions to the Miller concerning the body of Villa Grande, the
Statesman was ready to accompany De Blenau before he had been a quarter
of an hour in the house.
At Montolieu, De Blenau was permitted to rest a day, and was then sent
forward under a fresh escort to Lyons. The prisoner was now hurried
rapidly on his journey, travelling the whole of the first night, and at
last only stopping for a few hours to give him some repose at a village
about eight leagues from the city to which he was proceeding. As soon as
daylight dawned, they again began their journey; and taking the lower
road by the banks of the Rhone, gradually approached the ancient town of
Lyons.
The first pause they made was a compelled one, upon the wooden bridge,
situated on the river just below the town. This entrance had been chosen
to avoid the more populous suburbs; but the conductor of the escort had
been mistaken in his calculation, for owing to some circumstances of
general interest, which drew all the idle and the curious to that spot,
the bridge and the alleys to it were entirely covered with dense masses
of human beings, which completely obstructed the way. With difficulty
the carriage was dragged half over the bridge; and then, notwithstanding
the exertions of the guard, it was obliged to stop. De Blenau drew back
the leather curtain which obstructed his view, and turning his eyes
towards the river, a scene burst upon his sight which at once explained
to him the cause of such an assemblage.
There was a small but magnificent galley making its way slowly to the
landing-place. The rigging was adorned with streamers; the deck
glittered with all the splendid apparel of a court, the rowers were
clothed in rich uniform, scarcely different from that of the guards
which flanked each bank of oars; gold, and jewels, and blazonry shone
around. But the spot on which all eyes rested was a small canopy of rich
embroidery, upheld above the deck on silver poles by four officers of
the guard, in such a manner as to keep off the rays of the sun, but not
impede the breeze of the river from playing round a pile of rich velvet
cushions, on which, amidst the pomp and display of a sovereign prince,
lay the emaciated form of the Cardinal de Richelieu. His countenance was
calm and unmoved; indeed, he seemed hardly to regard the scene around,
listening to the conversation of an Abbé, who stood beside him for the
sole purpose of amusing him by various tales and anecdotes during the
voyage. Sometimes, however, he would raise his eyes, and appear to speak
to some of those who stood by; and then his glance would rapidly turn
towards a smaller boat, which, attached by two long ropes, was towed on
at the stern of his own galley. In that boat, seated between two of the
Cardinal's guard, sat the imprudent and unfortunate Cinq Mars, and his
companion in misfortune, De Thou. All the gay gallant spirit of the
Master of the Horse, which once taught him to scoff at the very idea of
adversity as at a bugbear of the imagination, was now quelled and lost,
and with a bending head, and eyes cast down, he sat perfectly
motionless, like a lifeless but elegant statue. De Thou, on the
contrary, calmly surveyed the passing scene. He seemed to have forgot
that he was there as a prisoner, borne, a part of that barbarous triumph
which his enemy was enjoying; and, even when his glance met that of the
Cardinal, his countenance remained undisturbed by any emotion of anger,
or any expression of reproach.
I have said that Richelieu would sometimes turn his look towards the
boat in which his captives were borne along; and still when he did so, a
momentary gleam would lighten in his eyes, and he would hastily glance
them round the multitude that lined the shores and the bridge. But
there was no sound of gratulation met his ear, no acclamation for his
regained ascendency. The busy whisper of curiosity would stir amongst
the people, or perhaps the murmur of compassion, as they gazed upon the
victims about to be sacrificed to his vengeance. But there was no love
to express; and fear changed their curses into the bitterness of
silence.
Such was the scene in the midst of which De Blenau found himself, when
the carriage stopped. He had just time to become aware of all its most
painful circumstances, when the guards again opened a way through the
people, and the vehicle passed on. The high round tower of
Pierre-en-Scize, raising its dark mass above the rest of the prison, was
the next thing that met his view, and he doubted not that the place of
his imprisonment was before him; but the carriage rolled on into the
great Place Terreaux, where it suddenly drew up.
"Then I am not to be taken to Pierre-en-Scize?" said De Blenau to the
officer who had accompanied him from Montolieu.
"No, Monsieur le Comte," replied he, "Pierre-en-Scize will be
sufficiently occupied with Messieurs Cinq Mars, De Thou, and others;
and when Monsieur de Bouillon, and the Duke of Orleans--"
"Good God!" exclaimed De Blenau, "is the Duke of Orleans implicated in
this unfortunate business?"
The officer smiled. "Why, they do say, Sir, that the King himself is in
the conspiracy. But as to the Duke, you know more of his share in it
than any one else--at least so we are told. But I must now beg you to
descend."
"You are under a mistake, Sir," replied De Blenau. "I know nothing of
the Duke, and as little of the conspiracy." And following the officer,
he entered a house in the Place Terreaux, which had been changed for the
time from one of the public offices of the city into a place of
confinement, and offered all the security without the horrors of a
prison. The windows were grated, it is true, but they looked out into
the free world below, and the captive might sit there and forget that he
was denied the power of joining the gay throng that passed along before
his eyes in all the pride of liberty.