Showing what it is to be a day after the Fair; with sundry other
matters, which the reader cannot fully comprehend without reading
them.
Having now left the Woodman as unhappy as we could wish, and De Blenau
very little better off than he was before; we must proceed with Pauline,
and see what we can do for her in the same way.
It has been already said that, in the hurry of her flight, she struck
her foot against a stone, and fell. This is an unpleasant accident at
all times, and more especially when one is running away; but Pauline
suffered it not to interrupt her flight one moment longer than
necessary. Finding that some unexpected obstacle had delayed her
pursuer as well as herself, she was upon her feet in a moment; and
leaving him to arrange his difference with Monsieur Chatpilleur in the
best way he could, she flew on towards the Rue Saint Antoine, without
stopping to thank her deliverer; and, indeed, without knowing that the
good _aubergiste_, taking a sincere interest in her fate, had, at the
hour appointed, waited at the door of his auberge till he saw her enter
the Bastille, and then, from some undefined feeling that all would not
go right, had watched anxiously to see her safe out again.
The interest not being reciprocal, Pauline had forgot all about the
_aubergiste_; and only seeing that some one obstructed her pursuer, she
fled, as I have said before, to the Rue Saint Antoine. She passed
Jacques Chatpilleur's little auberge, without any exchange of sentiment,
even with the _Sanglier Gourmand_, and darted by the boutique of a
_passementier_ with the same celerity. The next shop was a _marchand de
broderie et de dentelle_, with a little passage, or _cul de sac_,
between it and the following house, which was occupied by a
_brocanteur_, both which trades requiring daylight in aid of their
operations, were at that hour firmly closed with bolt and bar, nor shed
one solitary ray to light the passenger along the streets.
Just as she had come opposite to the first of these, Pauline found some
one seize her robe behind, and the next minute a large Spanish cloak was
thrown over her head, while a gigantic pair of arms embracing her waist,
raised her from the ground, and bore her along the street. Naturally
conceiving that she was in the power of some of her pursuers from the
Bastille, Pauline did not perceive, in the dreadful agitation of the
moment, that she was carried in a different direction; and, giving
herself up for lost, she yielded to her fate without scream or cry.
Whoever it was that held her, carried her like a feather; but after
striding along through several turnings, he paused, placed her on the
ground, and still holding the cloak over her head with one hand, seemed
to open a door with the other. The next moment he raised her again,
though in a different position, and carried her up what was evidently a
small winding staircase, at the top of which he again opened a door,
where, even through the cloak, Pauline could perceive that they had
entered some place which contained a powerful light. The moment the door
was open, some one exclaimed, "It is her! Oh Jesu! yes, it is her!" in a
voice which sounded so like that of her maid Louise that Pauline was
more than ever bewildered. The person who had carried her, now placed
her in a chair, and taking the additional security of tying the cloak
over her head, communicated for a few minutes with the other person in
whispers; after which Pauline fancied that some one quitted the room.
The covering was then removed from her eyes, and she found herself in a
small, meanly-furnished apartment, whose only occupant, besides
herself, was a handsome man, of very gigantic proportions, and of that
sort of daring aspect which smacked a little of the bravo. He was well
dressed in a pourpoint of green lustring, braided with gold lace,
slightly tarnished; the _haut-de-chausses_ was of the same, tied down
the side with red ribbons; and the cloak which he removed from Pauline's
head seemed to form a part of the dress, though he had deprived himself
of it for the moment, to answer the purpose in which we have seen it
employed. On the whole, he was a good-looking cavalier, though there was
a certain air of lawlessness in his countenance and mien which made
Pauline shrink.
"Nay, do not be afraid, Mademoiselle," said he, with a strong Norman
accent: "_Point de danger, point de danger_;" and he strove to reassure
her to the best of his power. He possessed no great eloquence, however,
at least of the kind calculated to calm a lady's fears; and the only
thing which tended to give Pauline any relief, was the manifest respect
with which he addressed her, standing cap in hand, and reiterating that
no harm was intended or could happen to her.
She listened without attending, too much frightened to believe his words
to their full extent, and striving to gain from the objects round about
some more precise knowledge of her situation. She was evidently not in
the Bastille; for the door of the room, instead of offering to her view
bolts and bars, of such complicated forms that, like the mousetrap, they
would have puzzled the man that made them, was only fastened by a single
wooden lock, the key of which, like a dog's tongue in a hot day, kept
lolling out with a negligent inclination towards the ground, very much
at ease in its keyhole. The more Pauline gazed around her, the more she
was bewildered; and after resolving twenty times to speak to the Norman,
and as often failing in courage, she at last produced an articulate
sound, which went to inquire where she was. The Norman, who had been
walking up and down the room, as if waiting the arrival of some one,
stopped in the midst, and making a low inclination, begged to assure
Mademoiselle that she was in a place of safety.
The ice being broken, Pauline demanded, "Did not I hear the voice of my
maid Louise?"
"No; it was my wife, Mademoiselle," replied her companion drily; and
recommencing his perambulations, the young lady sank back into herself.
At length a tap was heard at the door, and the Norman starting forward
went on the outside, closing it after him, though not completely; and of
the conversation which ensued between him and some other man, Pauline
could catch detached sentences, which, though they served but little to
elucidate her position to herself, may be of service to the reader.
At first all was conducted in a whisper, but the Norman soon broke
forth, "Sachristie! I tell you she got in. I did not catch her till she
was coming out."
"Monseigneur will be precious angry with us both," answered the other.
"How I missed you, I cannot imagine; I only went to call upon _la petite
Jeanette_, and did not stay five minutes."
"And I just stepped into the _Sanglier Gourmand_," rejoined our Norman,
"which is opposite, you know. There I thought I could see all that went
on. But that _maraud_, Jacques Chatpilleur, was always at his door about
something; so finding that I could not get my second bottle of wine, I
went down to the _cave_ for it myself; and she must have passed while I
was below."
"How did you find out, then, that she had got into the Bastille?"
demanded the other.
The Norman's reply was delivered in so low a tone that Pauline could
only distinguish the words--"Heard a scream--saw her running past like
mad--threw the cloak over her, and brought her here."
"Perhaps she was not in, after all," rejoined the other; "but at all
events, we must tell Monseigneur so. You swear you caught her just as
she was going in, and I'll vow that I was there and saw you."
A new consultation seemed to take place; but the speakers proceeded so
rapidly, that Pauline could not comprehend upon what it turned exactly,
although she was herself evidently the subject of discussion. "Oh, she
will not tell, for her own sake," said one of the voices. "She would be
banished, to a certainty, if it was known that she got in; and as to the
folks at the Bastille, be sure that they will hold their tongues."
Something was now said about a letter, and the voice of the Norman
replied, "Monseigneur does not suppose that she had a letter. Oh, no!
trust me, she had none. It was word of mouth work, be you sure. They
were too cunning to send a letter which might be stopped upon her. No,
no, they know something more than that."
"Well, then, the sooner we take her there, the better," rejoined the
other; "the carriage is below, but you must blind her eyes, for she may
know the liveries."
"Ah! your cursed livery betrayed us once before," answered the Norman.
"_Holla! la haut! mon Ange_, give me a kerchief; I will tie her eyes
with that, for the cloak almost smothers her, poor little soul!"
A light step was now heard coming down stairs, and a third person was
added to the party without. What they said, Pauline could not make out;
but though speaking in a whisper, she was still confident that she
distinguished the voice of her maid Louise. "Harm!" said the Norman,
after a moment, "we are going to do her no harm, _chère amie_! She will
be down there in Maine, with the Countess, and as happy as a Princess.
Give this gentleman the trunk-mail, and get yourself ready against I
come back; for we have our journey to take too, you know, _ma petite
femme_."
The Norman now laid his hand upon the lock; there was a momentary bustle
as of the party separating; and then entering the room, he informed
Pauline that she must allow him to blindfold her eyes. Knowing that
resistance was in vain, Pauline submitted with a good grace; and, her
fears considerably allayed by the conversation she had overheard,
attempted to draw from the Norman some farther information. But here he
was inflexible; and having tied the handkerchief over her eyes, so as
completely to prevent her seeing, he conducted her gently down the
stairs, taking care to keep her from falling; and having arrived in the
open air, lifted her lightly into a carriage, placed himself by her
side, and gave orders to drive on.
The vehicle had not proceeded many minutes, when it again stopped; and
Pauline was lifted out, conducted up a flight of stone steps, and then
led into an apartment, where she was placed in a fauteuil, the luxurious
softness of which bespoke a very different sort of furniture from that
of the chamber which she had just left. There was now a little bustle,
and a good deal of whispering, and then every one seemed to leave the
room. Fancying herself alone, Pauline raised her hand, in order to
remove the handkerchief from her eyes, at least for a moment; but a loud
"_Prenez garde!_" from the Norman, stopped her in her purpose, and the
next instant a door opened, and she heard steps approaching.
"Shut the door," said a voice she had never heard before. "Marteville,
you have done well. Are you sure that she had no conversation with any
one within the prison?"
"I will swear to it!" answered the Norman, with the stout asseveration
of a determined liar. "Ask your man Chauvelin, Monseigneur; he was by,
and saw me catch hold of her before she was at the gate."
"So he says," rejoined the other; "but now leave the room. I must have
some conversation with this demoiselle myself. Wait for me without."
"Pardie!" muttered the Norman, as he withdrew; "he'll find it out now,
and then I'm ruined."
"Mademoiselle de Beaumont," said the person that remained, "you have
been engaged in a rash and dangerous enterprise--Had you succeeded in
it, the Bastille must have been your doom, and severe judgment according
to the law. By timely information on the subject, I have been enabled to
save you from such a fate; but I am sorry to say that, for the safety of
all parties, you must endure an absence from your friends for some
time."
He paused, as if expecting a reply; and Pauline, after a moment's
consideration, determined to answer, in order to draw from him, if
possible, some farther information concerning the manner in which he had
become acquainted with her movements, and also in regard to her future
destination. "I perceive, Sir," said she, "from your conversation, that
you belong to the same rank of society as myself; but I am at a loss to
imagine how any gentleman presumes to attribute dangerous enterprises,
and actions deserving imprisonment, to a lady, of whom he neither does,
nor can know any thing."
"My dear young lady," replied her companion, "you make me smile. I did
not think that I should have to put forth my diplomatic powers against
so fair and so youthful an opponent. But allow me to remind you that,
when young ladies of the highest rank are found masquerading in the
streets at night, dressed in their servants' garments, they subject
their conduct, perhaps, to worse misconstructions than that which I have
put upon yours. But, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, I know you, and I know
the spirit of your family too well to suppose that any thing but some
great and powerful motive could induce you to appear as you do now.
Withdraw that bandage from your eyes, (I have no fear of encountering
them,) and look if that be a dress in which Mademoiselle de Beaumont
should be seen."
Pauline's quick fingers instantly removed the handkerchief, and raising
her eyes, she found that she was placed exactly before a tall Venetian
mirror, which offered her a complete portrait of herself, sitting in an
immense arm-chair of green velvet, and disguised in the costume of a
Languedoc _paysanne_. The large _capote_, or hood, which she had worn,
had been thrust back by the Norman, in order to blindfold her eyes, and
her dark hair, all dishevelled, was hanging about her face in glossy
confusion. The red serge _jupe_ of Louise had acquired in the passages
of the Bastille no inconsiderable portion of dust; and near the knee on
which she had fallen at the foot of the glacis, it was stained with
mire, as well as slightly torn. In addition to all this, appeared a
large rent at the side, occasioned by the efforts of Philip the woodman
to disengage it from the staple on which it had caught; and the black
bodice had been broadly marked with green mould, in pressing against the
wall while the guards passed so near to her.
Her face also was deathly pale, with all the alarm, agitation, and
fatigue she had undergone; so that no person could be more different
from the elegant and blooming Pauline de Beaumont than the figure which
that mirror reflected. Pauline almost started when she beheld herself;
but quickly recovering from her surprise, she cast her eyes round the
room, which was furnished in the most splendid and costly manner, and
filled with a thousand objects of curiosity or luxury, procured from all
the quarters of the globe.
Her attention, however, rested not upon any of these. Within a few paces
of the chair in which she sat, stood a tall elegant man, near that
period of life called the middle age, but certainly rather below than
above the point to which the term is generally applied. He was
splendidly dressed, according to the custom of the day; and the neat
trimming of his beard and mustaches, the regular arrangement of his dark
flowing hair, and the scrupulous harmony and symmetry of every part of
his apparel, contradicted the thoughtful, dignified expression of his
eyes, which seemed occupied with much higher thoughts. Vandyke has
transmitted to us many such a physiognomy, and many such a dress; but
few of his costumes are more splendid, or his countenances more
dignified, than was that of the stranger who stood beside Mademoiselle
de Beaumont.
He paused for a moment, giving her time to make what examination she
liked of every thing in the apartment; and as her eye glanced to
himself, demanded with a smile, "Well, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, do you
recollect me?"
"Not in the least," replied Pauline: "I think, Sir, that we can never
have seen each other before."
"Yes, we have," answered her companion, "but it was at a distance.
However, now look in that glass, and tell me--Do you recollect
_yourself_?"
"Hardly!" replied Pauline, with a blush, "hardly, indeed!"
"Well then, fair lady, I think that you will no longer demand my reasons
for attributing to you dangerous enterprises, and actions, as you say,
deserving imprisonment; but to put an end to your doubts at once, look
at that order, where, I think, you will find yourself somewhat
accurately described." And he handed to Pauline a small piece of
parchment, beginning with the words of serious import '_De par le roy_,'
and going on to order the arrest of the Demoiselle Pauline, daughter of
the late Marquis de Beaumont, and of the Dame Anne de la Hautière; with
all those good set terms and particulars, which left no room for mistake
or quibble, even if it had been examined by the eyes of the sharpest
lawyer of the _Cour des Aides_.
"What say you now, Mademoiselle de Beaumont?" demanded her companion,
seeing her plunged in embarrassment and surprise.
"I have nothing to say, Sir," replied Pauline, "but that I must submit.
However, I trust that, in common humanity, I shall be allowed to see my
mother, either when I am in prison, or before I am conveyed thither."
"You mistake me," said the other; "you are not going to a prison. I only
intend that you should take a little journey into the country; during
the course of which all attention shall be paid to your comfort and
convenience. Of course, young lady, when you undertook the difficult
task of conveying a message from the Queen to a prisoner in the
Bastille, you were prepared to risk the consequences. As you have not
succeeded, no great punishment will fall upon you; but as it is
absolutely necessary to the Government to prevent all communication
between suspected parties, you must bear a temporary absence from the
Court, till such time as this whole business be terminated; for neither
the Queen, nor any one else, must know how far you have succeeded or
failed."
Pauline pleaded hard to be allowed to see her mother, but in vain. The
stranger was obdurate, and would listen to neither entreaties,
promises, nor remonstrances. All she could obtain was, the assurance
that Madame de Beaumont should be informed of her safety, and that,
perhaps, after a time she might be permitted to write to her. "Listen to
me," said the stranger, cutting short the prayers by which she was
attempting to influence him. "I expect the King and Court from Chantilly
within an hour; and before that time you must be out of Paris. For your
convenience, a female servant shall attend you, and you will meet with
all the respect due to your rank; but for your own sake, ask no
questions, for I never permit my domestics to canvass my affairs with
any one--nay, they are forbidden ever to mention my name, except for
some express and permitted purpose. I will now leave you, and send
Mathurine to your assistance, who will help you to change your dress
from that _coffre_. You will then take some refreshment, and set out as
speedily as possible. At the end of your journey, you will meet with
one to whose care I have recommended you, and you will then learn in
whose hands you are placed. At present, I have the honour of bidding you
farewell."
The uncertainty of her fate, the separation from her mother, the vague
uneasy fear attendant upon want of all knowledge of whither she was
going, and the impossibility of communicating with her friends under any
event, raised up images far more terrifying and horrible to the mind of
Pauline, than almost any specific danger could have done; and, as her
companion turned away, she hid her face in her hands and wept.
Hearing her sob, and perhaps attributing her tears to other motives, he
returned for a moment, and said in a low voice: "Do not weep, my dear
child! I give you my honour, that you will be well and kindly treated.
But one thing I forgot to mention. I know that your object was to visit
the Count de Blenau; and I know, also, that a personal interest had
something to do in the matter. Now, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, I can
feel for you; and it may be some comfort to know, that M. de Blenau has,
at least, one person in the Council, who will strive to give to the
proceedings against him as much leniency as circumstances will admit."
This said, he quitted the apartment, and in a moment after Pauline was
joined by the female servant of whom he had spoken. She was a staid,
reputable-looking woman, of about fifty, with a little of the primness
of ancient maidenhood, but none of its acerbity. And, aware of Pauline's
rank, she assisted her to disentangle herself from her uncomfortable
disguise with silent respect, though she could not help murmuring to
herself. "_Mon Dieu! Une demoiselle mise comme ça._" She then called the
young Lady's attention to the contents of the _coffre_, asking which
dress she would choose to wear; when, to her surprise, Pauline found
that it contained a considerable part of her own wardrobe. Forgetting
the prohibition to ask questions, she could not help demanding of
Mathurine how her clothes could come there; but the servant was either
ignorant, or pretended to be so, and Pauline could obtain no
information. As soon as she was dressed, some refreshments were placed
on the table by Mathurine, who received them from a servant at one of
the doors, which she immediately closed again, and pressed Pauline to
eat. Pauline at first refused; but at length, to satisfy her companion,
who continued to insist upon it with a degree of quiet, persevering
civility, that would take no refusal, she took some of the coffee, which
was at that time served up as a rarity. As soon as ever the domestic
perceived that no entreaty would induce her to taste any thing else, she
called in a servant to carry the _coffre_ to the carriage, and then
notified to Pauline that it was time for them to depart.
Pauline felt that all resistance or delay would be vain; and she
accordingly followed Mathurine down a magnificent staircase into a
court-yard, where stood a _chaise roulante_, the door of which was held
open by the Norman we have already mentioned, while two men-servants
appeared ready mounted to follow the vehicle, as soon as it set out.
Mathurine placed herself by Pauline's side when she had entered; and the
Norman, having closed the door, opened the _porte-cochère_ of the court,
and the carriage drove out into the street.
We will not take the trouble of following Mademoiselle de Beaumont on
her journey, which occupied that night and the two following
days:--suffice it to say, that on the evening of the second day they
arrived in the beautiful neighbourhood of Château du Loir. The smiling
slopes, covered with the first vines; the rich fruit-trees hanging
actually over the road, and dropping with the latest gifts of liberal
Nature; the balmy air of a warm September evening; the rosy cheeks of
the peasantry; and the clear, smooth windings of the river Loir,[A] all
announced that they were approaching the land of happy Touraine: and
after putting her head more than once from the window, Mathurine, with a
smile of pleasure, pointed forward, exclaiming, "_Voilà le Château_."
[A] Not the Loire.
Pauline's eyes followed to the point where the other's hand directed
them; and upon a high ground, rising gently above the trees which
crowned a little projecting turn of the river, she beheld a group of
towers and pinnacles, with the conical-slated roofs, multifarious
weathercocks, long narrow windows, one turret upon the back of another,
and all the other distinctive marks of an old French château.