A VISITOR AFTER DARK.
The governor of the Bastille had retired to his own apartments within
that grim old fortress. All the duties of the day had been performed.
The allowance of black bread and impure water had been doled out to the
prisoners, and the doors closed, leaving them in utter darkness. All
these horrible duties being settled to his satisfaction, the governor
was ready for his own luxurious supper, and sat waiting for it with some
impatience. Originally this man was neither hard-hearted or cruel; but
holding a position where these qualities were exacted from him, they had
gradually become a part of his nature. Unlimited power of the worst kind
had made him a tyrant, and hardened his heart to iron.
As this man sat, calm and indifferent, in an atmosphere of misery, which
rose around him like a miasma, a grim, stalwart man, in the dress of a
keeper, knocked at the door and stood upon the threshold, removing the
cap from his head in token of respect for the presence he was in.
The governor turned in his chair and recognized the man.
“Well, Christopher, what news from the city? A little more quiet, I
hope.”
“Not a bit,” answered the keeper, promptly. “I have been among the
clubs, as you bade me, and have made my observations. The feeling of
discontent grows stronger and stronger.”
“Well, what do they expect to accomplish by grumbling, the varlets? I
wish we had them here, Christopher; a week or two of such lodgings and
fare as we could give them, would bring down their courage. We have that
whole lower range of cells unoccupied now, for our Louis is
chicken-hearted about sending his subjects here, merely to oblige his
friends; and he has no favorites, Marie Antoinette looks well to that.”
“Yes; and she it is who prevents the prison being full, as it was in the
good old time, when we registered a _lettre-de-cachet_ every day. It is
this clemency that emboldens the people, and sets them clamoring for the
thing they call ‘liberty!’ Liberty, indeed, we would give them enough to
quarrel about if we had them all here but for a single month.”
“Ah!” said the governor, who seemed on excellent terms with his man.
“But how are we to get them here, when we never see the king’s
signature, except it be to empty our cells of their prisoners? He seems
to forgive all men before they are sentenced, especially his own
enemies. I tell you, Christopher, this king, in his leniency, has
brought this fortress of the Bastille down to the level of a common
jail; and his conduct fills me with such disgust, that I am at times
half resolved to throw up my commission.”
The keeper looked through one of the narrow windows, and took a survey
of the ponderous walls; then, turning with a grim smile, he said,
“If the walls were less thick, a resignation might be prudent just now;
but I think they will defy all the clubs in Paris.”
“Or in all France,” answered the governor, laughing. “My draw-bridge
once up, and no monarch in Europe sits as firmly on his throne as I do.
Would to heaven his majesty was half as safe in Versailles!”
“Nay, I think the people hate the man they call their tyrant of the
Bastille worse than they do the monarch at Versailles,” said the keeper,
a little maliciously—“for cruel men are very seldom kind to each other.”
“Let them hate,” laughed the governor. “It will be a long time before
their malice can reach him.”
“Yes, as I said, the walls are thick.”
“And here comes my supper, Christopher, which your news from the city
shall not spoil,” cried the governor, interrupting his subordinate, as a
door was opened, and a daintily-arranged table revealed in the next
room. “Step in, though, and let me hear all the news you have gathered.”
The man entered the supper-room, and stood leaning against the
door-frame, while his superior placed himself at the table.
“It is the Bastille against which the people hurl hatred, and launch
their curses most bitterly,” he said. “Thinking me one of them—for I
wore this—they spoke freely enough.”
Here Christopher took a red cap from his pocket, and shook it viciously,
as if he hated the very color.
The governor looked up and laughed again.
“So they thought you one of their order, my poor Christopher, and took
you into their confidence on the strength of that red abomination. Well,
when do they intend to tear down the Bastille?”
“Tear down the Bastille! Have we not decided that the walls may defy
them?” replied the keeper, uneasily. “If I thought otherwise——”
“Well, what then, my good Christopher?”
“Why, then I should be glad to exchange places with any prisoner in the
cells.”
“A hard alternative, Christopher,” said the governor, smiling over his
well-filled plate, “and one not likely to happen. But we must be
careful. If the rabble hate us, as you say, we must do nothing to arouse
them.”
That moment the loud clangor of a bell sounded down the passages of the
building.
“What is that, Christopher?” inquired the governor, laying down his
knife and fork with something like consternation.
“Some one claiming admittance, who rings boldly, either an enemy, or an
officer under authority of the law, I should say,” answered the keeper.
“Go and see, Christopher.”
The keeper went out, passed from the prison to the draw-bridge, and
looked across. Beyond the huge timbers and drooping chains, he saw a
single, slight figure claiming a passage over, both by voice and
gesture.
“Why was the bell rung?” asked Christopher of the guard.
“Because it is some one with an order for the governor. He held up a
paper.”
“Is he quite alone?”
“Yes, I saw him dismount from a tired horse, which you may yourself
discover standing within the shadow of yonder building.”
“Let down the draw-bridge; but see that but one man enters—it may be a
messenger from the court.”
Directly the great chains of the draw-bridge began to shake and rattle,
the mighty hinges turned with ponderous heaviness, and the great mass of
wood fell slowly downward.
A slight figure crossed the bridge with a quick, nervous step, which
soon brought him to the keeper, who keenly regarded him during his
progress.
“A letter for the governor,” said the stranger, promptly taking a folded
paper from his girdle.
“Where from?” questioned Christopher.
“Directly from Versailles. Besides this, I am entrusted with a message
which can only be given in person; oblige me by saying so much in my
behalf.”
Christopher took the letter and held it between his teeth, while the
ponderous machinery of the bridge was put in motion again, and the whole
fabric loomed up.
The stranger started as he saw the huge timbers uplifted like some
massive gate rising between him and the world he had left; but he made
no protest, and only grew a little paler than before, as the awful
blackness of its shadow fell upon him.
“There is no danger from any one on this side,” muttered the keeper,
moving slowly away, leaving the stranger standing by the guard; “but in
these times it is hardly safe to admit even a stripling like that after
dark.”