THE RESCUE
The prison of the Temple was a huge gloomy building, fronting on two
streets. Monsieur, the Grand Prieur de Vendome, was governor of the
prison, and had a whole wing of it fitted up very luxuriously for
himself--for the Temple was the very pleasantest quarter of Paris, and
the wits, the songs, the plays of the Temple have been celebrated ever
since I knew Paris. Mirepoix was the deputy governor--there is always
in these places a governor who draws the money and a deputy who does
the work. Mirepoix was a great fool--I knew him well.
When the carts rattled under the archway which led into the courtyard
on which the great hall of the prison fronted, I had dismissed my
coachman and was waiting to see what could be done to screen
Mademoiselle Capello. A few minutes after I arrived, old Peter came,
breathless and almost speechless. I told him to remain in the
courtyard until I should deliver his young mistress into his hands.
The sight of the black archway, the great, silent courtyard dimly
lighted with lanterns--for night had fallen by that time--frightened
the children. They stopped laughing and some of them began to whimper;
the cobbler's boy had never stopped howling a moment.
I stood close and saw Mademoiselle Francezka descend, and I made her a
low bow, pointing to old Peter who stood close to me and made her a
sign. She understood, and flashed me a tremulous little smile as she
led the procession into the vast dark hall of the prison which opens
on the courtyard.
I went in too. It was but dimly lighted. Mirepoix was already there--a
weak, irresolute man of fifty or thereabouts, completely off his head,
listening first to Lafarge, then to Jacques Haret, and seemingly not
knowing whether the giving of a theatrical performance without a
license was a misdemeanor or high treason. He knew Jacques Haret,
however, and his reputation or want of reputation, and was inclined to
take Lafarge's side of the case.
The children were in a row, all shivering and trembling, except
Francezka Capello, who stood with the pale beauty and virginal majesty
of a Joan of Arc at the stake.
Jacques Haret--commend me to the Jacques Harets of this world for
knowing all their rights!--seeing what a muddlehead Mirepoix was,
cried stoutly:
"I demand to see the governor of the prison, the Grand Prieur de
Vendome."
Now, this was his right--but Mirepoix proceeded to argue the point
with him. The Grand Prieur was having a supper party. The Grand Prieur
must not be disturbed--and much else to the same purpose. But all he
could get out of Jacques Haret was:
"I demand to see the Grand Prieur. My great grandfather and his
ancestor, Henri Quatre, were boon companions. My ancestor fought at
Ivry under his ancestor, and my family now possesses a letter from
Henri Quatre to Jacques Haret, asking the loan of fifty crowns and a
pair of breeches!"
I could have wrung Jacques Haret's neck for his persistence, but I
could do nothing but stand and watch and fume, with the young girl's
tragic face before me, and old Peter breaking his heart in the
courtyard.
A messenger was sent for the Grand Prieur, and Jacques Haret consumed
the intervening time in a wordy war with Mirepoix and Lafarge, and he
got the better of both of them.
I scarce thought the messenger had got the length of the prison, when
the door opened, and the Grand Prieur appeared. He was a very old man,
but still handsome and black-browed, very like his brother Marshal,
the Duc de Vendome--but not so dirty, nor did he sleep with dogs in
his bed. On the contrary, he was given to luxury, made excellent
verses, and was of polished manners.
When he entered the hall I saw that he looked anxious, and peered
eagerly into the half darkness that surrounded the company gathered
there. Mirepoix plunged into the story, and to justify himself for
interrupting the Grand Prieur's supper party, one would have thought
the twenty or so children were twenty malefactors and giving a
theatrical performance without a license was the unpardonable sin.
The Grand Prieur heard him through and then cried:
"Good God! I thought it was an attempt on the king's life! And for
these brats you took me away from the supper table!"
Jacques Haret now came to the front, gravely reminding the Grand
Prieur of the connection between their ancestors and the loan of the
breeches. The Grand Prieur tried to scowl, but instead, burst out
laughing. Jacques Haret then proceeded to give his account of the
affair, including his preliminary interview with Madame Riano--or
Peggy Kirkpatrick, as he called her--and he acted Peggy to the life so
that even the frightened children laughed without understanding it;
all laughed, in fact, except Mademoiselle Capello, who scowled
tragically at the game made of her aunt. And not being deficient in
sense, Jacques Haret took pretty good care not to hint that his star
actress was Madame Riano's niece. The climax came, however, when he
apostrophized Lafarge as being the self-constituted protector of
Madame Riano's property. This brought down the house, and Lafarge
stuttered:
"I--I was not thinking of protecting Madame Riano--it was the majesty
of the law that was being outraged--the king--"
"Ah! You were protecting the king, then," cried the Grand Prieur.
"Well, I dare say the court and the army and the people and the
church, among them, can do that without your help, Lafarge--and
Jacques Haret--suppose, since you have spoiled my supper, you
recompense me with a performance by this army of young criminals?"
"With the greatest pleasure, Monsieur."
"And by that time, their parents will all be howling in the courtyard,
and we can give the criminals each a coin, and let them go."
Some of the parents had indeed already arrived, and word was sent to
them that the children would be released as soon as they had given
their play.
There were some benches and tables against the walls--for here it was
that the guard dined and supped--and these were hauled forth, some
scenery was improvised with stools and sheets, and torches were
procured to light up the vast dark place. The Grand Prieur had gone
back to fetch his guests.
"Come, Mademoiselle," said Jacques Haret to Mademoiselle Capello, "you
must act your best, and get us all out of this scrape."
For the first time I saw a look on Mademoiselle Capello's face,
indicating shame and humiliation at her position. She had not so far
spoken a word that I knew of. She glanced toward me as much as to ask
if she should agree--and I nodded. My one idea was to prevent a
catastrophe before getting her into old Peter's hands, and I dared not
make any disturbance on her account.
"But, Monsieur," she said to Jacques Haret, "you must let Peter, my
servant, come to me--he followed me on foot all the distance from the
garden."
"I will! I will!"
Jacques Haret ran out and fetched Peter, who was outside the door.
Peter dashed in, ran up to Francezka and began to cry:
"Oh, my darling little mistress! Oh, what will madame say to you? What
will she do to you?"
I gave him a look of warning, which checked his lamentations. He
squeezed himself into a little place back of the improvised stage, and
from there I watched his anxious face during what followed.
Jacques Haret mustered the children on the stage, gave them such
directions as were necessary, and then the sound of voices and
laughter was heard, the door opened, and in came the Grand Prieur and
his company of guests. There were thirty or forty of them, all
gentlemen of the first quality, wearing their swords, and many of them
showed their wine. A crowd of servants bearing candles came after
them. These, Jacques Haret ranged as torch-bearers in front of the
improvised stage. The guests were provided with benches, and the
performance began. It was _Madame Mariamne and Monsieur Herod_.
And then a new and terrible danger presented itself. It was quite
possible that among these bewigged and bepowdered gentlemen, with
their velvet coats and silk stockings, might be some frequenters of
Madame Riano's saloons--and then!
I watched their faces closely, and soon satisfied myself that none of
them recognized Mademoiselle Capello, unless it were a young
gentleman, Gaston Cheverny by name, who stood near the stage, close to
old Peter. Fate delights in mountebank tricks. On the same day, I saw
for the first time those two persons with whose lives my life was
henceforth bound--Francezka Capello and Gaston Cheverny.
I noticed that this Cheverny was not more than twenty, and was not
regularly handsome, although extremely well built and graceful. I took
it that he was a youth of parts, or he would not be found, at his age,
in the company of the Grand Prieur, who hated dullards. And as fate
would have it, I loved Gaston Cheverny the first instant my eyes
rested on him.
The performance began, and Mademoiselle Capello came upon the stage,
and acted as if inspired. Circumstanced as she was, she was bound to
act her best or her worst--and it was her best. She soon had her
audience in convulsions of laughter; and when, with ready wit, she
took off Lafarge, interjecting some of his foolish remarks into the
farcical _Mariamne_, I thought the floor would have come through with
the stamping of feet and pounding of jeweled-headed canes, while the
laughter became a veritable tempest. And Francezka enjoyed it; that
was plain in her kindling eye, and the color that flooded her late
pale cheeks and lips.
Through it all, Gaston Cheverny smiled but little, and his face, which
was the most expressive I ever saw, not excepting Monsieur Voltaire's,
showed pity for this young girl. I felt sure he recognized her.
When the part in the little play came of _Mariamne's_ farewell,
Mademoiselle Capello changed it to the real _Mariamne_, as subtly as
she had done in the afternoon in the garden. Her present audience, far
more intelligent than any she had ever played to, instantly caught the
beauty, the wit, the art, of what she was doing. A deathlike silence
fell when Francezka, in her sweet, penetrating voice, was bidding the
cobbler's boy a last, despairing farewell. The Grand Prieur, leaning
forward, put his hand to his ear--he was slightly deaf--and I felt my
eyes grow hot with tears, when suddenly Mademoiselle Capello caught
Gaston Cheverny's eyes fixed on her. It was as if he had laid a
compelling hand upon her. She stopped, hesitated, and walked a few
steps toward him. Her rosy face grew pale; she opened her mouth, but
was unable to speak a word. Jacques Haret, standing close to her,
gave her the cue once--twice--very audibly. Mademoiselle Capello,
without heeding him, and moving like a sleep-walker, went still
farther toward the edge of the stage where Gaston Cheverny stood--and
then covering her face with her mantle she burst into a passion of
tears and sobbing.
There was a movement of compassion for her; old Peter on the edge of
the crowd was begging,
"For God's sake, gentlemen, let me go to my child--she is my
daughter--I am but a serving-man--" but no one moved to let him
through.
The children on the stage were in confusion--Jacques Haret was in
despair. Mademoiselle Capello, with her face still wrapped in her
mantle, continued her convulsive sobbing. Gaston Cheverny made a lane
with his strong arm through the crowd and called to Peter.
"This way, my man. Come and fetch your daughter."
Peter got through at last, lifted the weeping Francezka down in his
arms, and started for the door with her.
I left the hall quickly, in which there was much confusion--the Grand
Prieur calling out that the children should have a livre each, except
the cobbler's boy and Francezka, who were to have a gold crown.
Outside in the courtyard under the dark, starlit sky, I found Peter
with Mademoiselle Capello and Gaston Cheverny. The young girl had
regained her composure, and stood silent, pale as death and like a
criminal, before Gaston Cheverny. Like most very young men, he liked
to reprove, and to assume authority over others but little younger
than himself.
"Mademoiselle," he was saying, "you have, perhaps, forgotten me and
my brother, Monsieur Regnard Cheverny--you were too young to remember
us. But we had the honor of knowing you in Brabant when you were
little more than an infant--and our houses have always been
friendly. For that, as well as other reasons, I must exact a
promise of you. Never repeat this performance. You are but a child
yet, and this indiscretion may well be forgotten. But Mademoiselle,
you will soon be a woman--and a woman's indiscretions are not
forgotten."
All of which would have been very well from a man of forty, but was
slightly ridiculous in this peach-faced youth of twenty.
A gleam of spirit--of Madame Riano's spirit--flashed into Mademoiselle
Capello's face at this assumption on Gaston Cheverny's part.
"Monsieur Cheverny," she said, "I remember you perfectly well--also,
your brother, Monsieur Regnard Cheverny. I am older than you think,
perhaps. I even remember that I hated one of you--I can not now recall
which one--except that he or you annoyed me, when I was a child in
Brabant, at my chateau of Capello"--oh, the grand air with which she
brought out "my chateau of Capello!"--"and--and--if I act--it is none
of your business."
"It will be Madame Riano's business, though," darkly hinted Gaston
Cheverny.
At this veiled threat to tell her aunt, Mademoiselle Capello showed
she was but a child after all, for she broke down, crying:
"I will promise, Monsieur."
There was but a single coach in sight, and while Gaston Cheverny was
haranguing Mademoiselle Capello, I had engaged it to take her home.
The coachman drove up, I opened the door and invited mademoiselle to
enter. She recognized me at once, and curtsied deeply.
"Thank you, Monsieur," she said with the greatest sweetness in the
world. It was the first time she ever spoke to me--and can I ever
forget it?
"Thank you, Monsieur; I do not know your name, but I know you followed
me to this dreadful place to take care of me--and you have treated me
with the utmost respect, Monsieur, and have not dared to reprove or
threaten me, and I thank you for that, too!"
She gave a sidelong glance out of her eloquent eyes at Gaston
Cheverny, that I would not have had her give me for the best horse in
the king's stables. The young man did not relish it, and straightway
undertook to make me responsible for his chagrin. He scowled at me
when I made my bow to Mademoiselle Capello, and attempted to divide
the honor with me of putting her in the coach, which, after all, old
Peter did. The door slammed, the coach rattled off, with Peter upon
the box, and Mademoiselle Capello sitting in offended majesty within.