THE BASTILLE.
And now, with the reader's permission, we will enter the Bastille--that
formidable building at which even the passing traveler trembled, and
which, to the whole neighborhood, was an annoyance and cause of alarm;
for often at night the cries of the unfortunate prisoners who were under
torture might be heard piercing the thick walls, so much so, that the
Duchesse de Lesdequieres once wrote to the governor, that, if he did not
prevent his patients from making such a noise, she should complain to
the king.
At this time, however, under the reign of Philippe d'Orleans, there were
no cries to be heard; the society was select, and too well bred to
disturb the repose of a lady.
In a room in the Du Coin tower, on the first floor, was a prisoner
alone; the room was large, and resembled an immense tomb lighted by two
windows, furnished with an unusual allowance of bars and irons. A
painted couch, two rough wooden chairs, and a black table, were the
whole furniture; the walls were covered with strange inscriptions, which
the prisoner consulted from time to time when he was overcome by ennui.
[Illustration: ABBE BRIGAUD.--Page 517.]
He had, however, been but one day in the Bastille, and yet already he
paced his vast chamber, examining the iron-barred doors, looking
through the grated windows, listening, sighing, waiting. This day, which
was Sunday, a pale sun silvered the clouds, and the prisoner watched,
with a feeling of inexpressible melancholy, the walkers on the
Boulevards. It was easy to see that every passer-by looked at the
Bastille with a feeling of terror, and of self-gratulation at not being
within its walls. A noise of bolts and creaking hinges drew the prisoner
from this sad occupation, and he saw the man enter before whom he had
been taken the day before. This man, about thirty years of age, with an
agreeable appearance and polite bearing, was the governor, M. de Launay,
father of that De Launay who died at his post in '89.
The prisoner, who recognized him, did not know how rare such visits
were.
"Monsieur de Chanlay," said the governor, bowing, "I come to know if you
have passed a good night, and are satisfied with the fare of the house
and the conduct of the employes"--thus M. de Launay, in his politeness,
called the turnkeys and jailers.
"Yes, monsieur; and these attentions paid to a prisoner have surprised
me, I own."
"The bed is hard and old, but yet it is one of the best; luxury being
forbidden by our rules. Your room, monsieur, is the best in the
Bastille; it has been occupied by the Duc d'Angouleme, by the Marquis de
Bassompierre, and by the Marshals de Luxembourg and Biron; it is here
that I lodge the princes when his majesty does me the honor to send them
to me."
"It is an excellent lodging," said Gaston, smiling, "though ill
furnished; can I have some books, some paper, and pens?"
"Books, monsieur, are strictly forbidden; but if you very much wish to
read, as many things are allowed to a prisoner who is ennuye, come and
see me, then you can put in your pocket one of those volumes which my
wife or I leave about; you will hide it from all eyes; on a second
visit you will take the second volume, and to this abstraction we will
close our eyes."
"And paper, pens, ink?" said Gaston, "I wish most particularly to
write."
"No one writes here, monsieur; or, at least, only to the king, the
regent, the minister, or to me; but they draw, and I can let you have
drawing-paper and pencils."
"Monsieur, how can I thank you sufficiently for your kindness?"
"By granting me the request I came to make, for my visit is an
interested one. I came to ask if you would do me the honor to dine with
me to-day?"
"With you, monsieur! truly, you surprise me; however, I cannot tell you
how sensible I am of your courtesy, and should retain for it an
everlasting gratitude if I had any prospect but death before my eyes."
"Death! monsieur, you are gloomy; you should not think of these
things--forget them and accept--"
"I do, monsieur."
"A la bonne heure," said the governor, bowing to Gaston, "I will take
back your answer;" and he went out, leaving the prisoner plunged in a
new train of ideas.
The politeness which at first charmed the chevalier, on reflection began
to arouse some suspicion. Might it not be intended to inspire him with
confidence, and lead him on to betray himself and his companions; he
remembered the tragic chronicle of the Bastille, the snares laid for
prisoners, and that famous dungeon chamber so much spoken of, which none
who had entered ever left alive. Gaston felt himself alone and
abandoned. He also felt that the crime he had meditated deserved death;
did not all these flattering and strange advances conceal some snare? In
fact, the Bastille had done its ordinary work; the prison acted on the
prisoner, who became cold, suspicious, and uneasy.
"They take me for a provincial," he thought, "and they hope
that--prudent in my interrogatories--I shall be imprudent in my conduct;
they do not, they cannot, know my accomplices; and they hope that in
giving me the means of communicating with them, of writing to them, or
of inadvertently speaking of them, they will get something out of me.
Dubois and D'Argenson are at the bottom of this."
Then Gaston thought of his friends who were waiting for him without news
from him, who would not know what had become of him, or, worse still, on
some false news, might act and ruin themselves.
Then came the thought of his poor Helene, isolated, as he himself was,
whom he had not even presented to the Duc d'Olivares, her sole protector
for the future, and who might himself be arrested or have taken flight.
Then, what would become of Helene, without support, and pursued by that
unknown person, who had sought her even in the heart of Bretagne?
In a paroxysm of despair at this thought, Gaston threw himself on his
bed, cursing the doors and bars which imprisoned him, and striking the
stones with his hands.
At this moment there was a noise at the door. Gaston rose hastily, and
met D'Argenson with a law officer, and behind them an imposing escort of
soldiers. He understood that he was to be interrogated.
D'Argenson, with his great wig, large black eyes, and dark shaggy
eyebrows, made little impression on the chevalier; he knew that in
joining the conspiracy he sacrificed his happiness, and that in entering
the Bastille he had sacrificed his life. In this mood, it was difficult
to frighten him. D'Argenson asked a hundred questions which Gaston
refused to answer, replying only by complaints of being unjustly
arrested, and demanding proof. M. d'Argenson became angry, and Gaston
laughed in his face; then D'Argenson spoke of the Breton conspiracy;
Gaston assumed astonishment, and listened to the list of his accomplices
with the greatest sangfroid. When the magistrate had finished, he
thanked him for giving him intelligence of events which were quite new
to him. D'Argenson again lost patience, and gave his ordinary angry
cough. Then he passed from interrogatory to accusation.
"You wanted to kill the regent," said he, all at once, to the
chevalier.
"How do you know that?" asked Gaston, calmly.
"Never mind how, since I know it."
"Then I will answer you as Agamemnon did Achilles. Why ask, since you
know it?"
"Monsieur, I am not jesting," said D'Argenson.
"Nor I," said Gaston; "I only quote Racine."
"Take care, monsieur, you may find this system of defense do you no
good."
"Do you think it would be better to confess what you ask me?"
"It is useless to deny a fact which I am aware of."
"Then permit me to repeat my question: what is the use of asking me
about a project of which apparently you are so much better informed than
I am?"
"I want the details."
"Ask your police, which reads even people's most secret thoughts."
"Hum, hum," said D'Argenson, in a tone which, in spite of Gaston's
courage, made some impression on him, "what would you say if I asked
news of your friend La Jonquiere?"
"I should say," replied Gaston, turning pale, "that I hope the same
mistake has not been made about him as about me."
"Ah!" said D'Argenson, "that name touches you, I think--you know M. la
Jonquiere?"
"I know him as a friend, recommended to me to show me Paris."
"Yes--Paris and its environs; the Palais Royal, the Rue du Bac, or La
Muette: he was to show you all these, was he not?"
"They know all," thought Gaston.
"Well, monsieur," said D'Argenson, "can you find another verse from
Racine which will serve as an answer to my question?"
"Perhaps I might, if I knew what you meant; certainly I wished to see
the Palais Royal, for it is a curious place, and I have heard it much
spoken of. As to the Rue du Bac, I know little of it; then there only
remains La Muette, of which I know nothing."
"I do not say that you have been there; I say that La Jonquiere was to
take you there--do you dare to deny it."
"Ma foi, monsieur, I neither deny nor avow; I refer you to him; he will
answer you if he think fit."
"It is useless, monsieur; he has been asked, and has replied."
Gaston felt a shudder pass through him. He might be betrayed, but he
would divulge nothing. He kept silence.
D'Argenson waited a moment, then, seeing that Gaston remained silent--
"Would you like to meet La Jonquiere?" asked he.
"You can do with me as you please, monsieur," said Gaston; "I am in your
hands."
But at the same time he resolved, if he were to face La Jonquiere, he
would crush him beneath his contempt.
"It is well. As you say, I am the master, and I choose just now to apply
the ordinary and extraordinary question: Do you know what they are,
monsieur?" said D'Argenson, leaning on each syllable.
A cold sweat bathed Gaston's temples, not that he feared to die, but
torture was worse than death. A victim of the torture was always
disfigured or crippled, and the best of these alternatives was a cruel
one for a young man of five and twenty.
D'Argenson saw, as in a mirror, what was passing in Gaston's mind.
"Hola!" said the interrogator.
Two men entered.
"Here is a gentleman who seems to have no dislike to the question
ordinary or extraordinary. Take him to the room."
"It is the dark hour, the hour I expected," murmured Gaston. "Oh, my
God! give me courage."
Doubtless his prayer was heard, for, making a sign that he was ready, he
followed the guards with a firm step.
D'Argenson came behind him.
They descended the stone staircase and passed the first dungeon in the
tower. There they crossed two courts. As they crossed the second court,
some prisoners, looking through their windows and seeing a gentleman
well dressed, called out:
"Hola! monsieur, you are set free then?"
A woman's voice added:
"Monsieur, if you are asked about us when you are free from here, say
that we said nothing."
A young man's voice said:
"You are happy, monsieur--you will see her you love."
"You are mistaken, monsieur," said the chevalier. "I am about to suffer
the question."
A terrible silence succeeded. Then the sad procession went over the
drawbridge, Gaston was placed in a closed and locked chair and taken to
the arsenal, which was separated from the Bastille by a narrow passage.
D'Argenson had taken the lead, and awaited the prisoner, who found
himself in a low room covered with damp. On the wall hung chains,
collars, and other strange instruments; chafing dishes stood on the
ground, and crosses of Saint Andre were in the corner.
"You see this," said D'Argenson, showing the chevalier two rings
fastened into flagstones at six feet apart, and separated by a wooden
bench about three feet high; "in these rings are placed the head and
feet of the patient; then this tressel is placed under him, so that his
stomach is two feet higher than his mouth; then we pour pots of water
holding two pints each into his mouth. The number is fixed at eight for
the ordinary, ten for the extraordinary question. If the patient refuses
to swallow, we pinch his nose so that he cannot breathe; then he opens
his mouth, then he swallows. This question," continued he, emphasizing
every detail, "is very disagreeable, and yet I do not think I should
prefer the boot. Both kill sometimes; the boot disfigures the patient,
and it is true that the water destroys his health for the future; but it
is rare, for the prisoner always speaks at the ordinary question if he
be guilty, and generally at the extraordinary, if he be not."
Gaston, pale and silent, listened and watched.
"Do you prefer the wedges, chevalier? Here, bring the wedges."
A man brought six wedges and showed them, still stained with blood and
flattened at the edges by the blows which had been struck upon them.
"Do you know the way in which these are used? The knees and ankles of
the patient are pressed between two wooden slabs as tightly as possible,
then one of these men forces a wedge between the knees, which is
followed by a larger one. There are eight for the ordinary torture, and
two larger for the extraordinary. These wedges, I warn you, chevalier,
break bones like glass, and wound the flesh insupportably."
"Enough, enough," said Gaston, "unless you wish to double the torture by
describing it; but, if it be only to guide my choice, I leave it to you,
as you must know them better than I, and I shall be grateful if you will
choose the one which will kill me most quickly."
D'Argenson could not conceal the admiration with which Gaston's strength
of will inspired him.
"Come," said he, "speak, and you shall not be tortured."
"I have nothing to say, monsieur, so I cannot."
"Do not play the Spartan, I advise you. One may cry, but between the
cries one always speaks under torture."
"Try," said Gaston.
Gaston's resolute air, in spite of the struggle of nature--a struggle
which was evidenced by his paleness, and by a slight nervous tremor
which shook him--gave D'Argenson the measure of his courage. He was
accustomed to this kind of thing, and was rarely mistaken. He saw that
he should get nothing out of him, yet he persisted.
"Come, monsieur," said he, "it is still time. Do not force us to do you
any violence."
"Monsieur," said Gaston, "I swear before God who hears me, that if you
put me to the torture, instead of speaking, I will hold my breath, and
stifle myself, if the thing be possible. Judge, then, if I am likely to
yield to threats, where I am determined not to yield to pain."
D'Argenson signed to the tormentors, who approached Gaston; but, as
they did so, he seemed to gain new strength. With a calm smile, he
helped them to remove his coat and to unfasten his cuffs.
"It is to be the water, then?" asked the man.
"The water first," said D'Argenson.
They passed the cords through the rings, brought the tressels, filled
the vases--Gaston did not flinch.
D'Argenson reflected.
After about ten minutes' thought, which seemed an age to the chevalier--
"Let him go," said D'Argenson, with a grunt of discontent, "and take him
back to the Bastille."