A WOMAN’S NATURE TRANSFORMED.
Madame Gosner moved through the door, as she uttered a threat which was
treason in itself, leading Marguerite by the hand. Monsieur Jacques
remained behind, though Christopher stood waiting for him to depart,
holding the door with his hand. He had set down the lantern in the
passage that those who went out might have more light.
All at once, Jacques took up the lantern, passed through the door, and
lifting Madame Gosner’s scarf from the dead man’s face, held down the
light and closely examined the features. A quick intelligence came to
his eyes. He glanced at Christopher, and saw that he watched these
proceedings uneasily.
“Monsieur forgets that his friends are standing in the dark,” said the
guard, impatiently.
“No,” answered Jacques; “monsieur forgets nothing.”
Saying this, he set down the lantern, drew a knife from his pocket, and
stooping down, cut a lock of hair from the dead man’s temple. All this
was done with his back to the guard, who sprang forward and snatched up
the light at the moment, and thus was unconscious of the act.
A moment after the two men passed into the passage, the dungeon-door
fell to with a crash, and Christopher turned his key in the ponderous
lock with a smothered exclamation of thankfulness.
In the upper corridor Madame Gosner turned and addressed a sentence to
the guard, who was walking fast as if anxious to escape from the gloom
of the place. She paused a moment while speaking, and stood close by the
oaken door which marked the position of some cell which her voice had
penetrated. From that cell came a cry so wild, so plaintive and
thrilling, that the whole group stopped awe-stricken.
“Move on,” said the guard. “It is only some prisoner who has heard our
voices. No wonder he cries out; few strangers are ever admitted here,
and conversation in these vaults is an unknown thing.”
Marguerite went close to her mother, who stood immovable, listening
keenly.
Again the noise commenced, and a tumult of words seemed forcing
themselves through the oaken door, against which some heavy weight flung
itself with a violence that made all the rusty iron holding it together
rattle in staples and sockets.
“Move on! Move on!” cried the guard, stamping his foot with vehement
impatience. “Move on, madame! The prison has laws, and you are in the
act of breaking them.”
Christopher, who carried the light, walked forward with rapid strides,
and the rest were forced to follow him.
When Madame Gosner came into the light of the guard-room her eyes
gleamed like stars, and the deadly pallor of her face was terrible to
look upon. It seemed as if she had been walking through burning
ploughshares, and was ready to go still further along the fiery path.
The disappointment, which would have taken away all strength from
another woman, had given to her almost superhuman power.
When they reached the governor’s quarters, Christopher desired them to
enter, but Marguerite saw Doudel by one of the guard houses and went to
him, thus separating herself from the rest. The good man saw by her face
that some great evil had fallen upon her, and placed her on a stone
bench near him where she could rest in peace while her mother and
Monsieur Jacques followed Christopher into the governor’s presence. Here
the guard reported the death of his prisoner, which was received with an
appearance of profound commiseration.
The governor had recovered all his silky equanimity. With urbane
politeness he invited madame and her friend into his own apartments,
offered them wine and confections, as if people so disturbed could
partake of such dainties; and with elaborate hypocrisy regretted the
event which had made their visit to the prison so severe a
disappointment.
Madame Gosner listened to all this dumbly, and like one in a trance. Had
the man been a statue of granite, she could not have looked into his
face with less consciousness of the life that was in him. Some new idea
had taken possession of her faculties and locked up her whole being.
Glances of unrest passed between the governer and his subordinate; the
marble stillness of this woman seemed to threaten them with danger; her
appearance puzzled them. In her dress, and somewhat in her air, she
might have belonged to the people; but her language was pure, her manner
commanding. If she really was of the lower order, she must be one of
those who wield a powerful influence among her compeers, for when she
spoke, her words were impressive; when passion swayed her, as it had
done in the dungeon, they swelled into powerful eloquence that would
have stirred crowds with enthusiasm. She was the very woman to sway
ignorant masses; and such women were even now kindling up terrible
discontent among the people of Paris.
It was for this reason the governor strove to conciliate the woman
before she left the Bastille.
But Madame Gosner would neither eat or drink in his presence. Once she
crossed the room suddenly, as he was speaking, and laid her hand on his
arm, as if about to question him. But a change evidently came over her
purpose, and she drew back without having uttered a word.
Then, in dread silence, she left the prison, pale, haggard, and so
depressed by bitter disappointment, that she seemed more like a
prisoner, worn out with suffering than a human being acting from her own
free will.
Madame Gosner entered her room, and bade her two companions enter also.
Up to this time she had not spoken, but walked rapidly through the
streets of Paris, looking straight ahead and pressing her lips firmly
together, as if some sharp cry were attempting to break forth which she
would not permit to escape her.
When the door was closed and bolted, she turned upon Monsieur Jacques,
and looked him steadily in the face.
“Monsieur, you visited the prisoners once. Was the man we saw lying dead
in a dungeon of the Bastille my husband?”
“Madame, you ask me a hard question. I had my doubts, I have them still.
This man was of the same size, thin, emaciated, tall, with masses of
gray hair—all these belonged to your husband; but his eyes were closed,
all the sweet expression which made his face beautiful, even in that
dungeon had disappeared. It may have been the work of death, but my mind
rejects the identity.”
“My God, help us! How are we to know? In what way can the truth be
discovered?” exclaimed the woman passionately.
Monsieur Jacques drew a lock of hair from his bosom, which he held
toward her.
“I cut this from his head. The suspicion was strong upon me, and I
thought it might aid us in discovering the truth. Look! You should know
the color of his hair, for this is not all gray.”
Madame Gosner reached forth her hand, but drew it back again, shrinking
from a touch of the hair. She dreaded the conviction it might bring, for
wild as the hope was that had sprung up in her heart, she felt that all
strength would go from her if it should utterly fail. She took the hair
at last, something in the color reassured her.
“It is darker, less silky, coarser!” she exclaimed. “His hair was like
an infant’s, almost flaxen, with gleams of pale gold in it.”
“But time changes the hair more than anything else,” said Monsieur
Jacques. “I was wrong to think it a sure test. We must have some more
certain proof.”
“For another this may be insufficient, but I ask nothing more. My
husband’s hair never could become so dark or coarse as this.”
“Still opinion is no proof. Why should an imposition be practiced upon
us? How did the governor know that a pardon was coming?”
“Only through one channel. The king who signed the pardon may have taken
this method of evading it.”
“No, no! he never did that,” cried Marguerite.
“No one else had the power,” answered Madame Gosner. “If my husband is
yet alive, as I solemnly believe he is, and that I have heard his voice
this day, the fraud practiced upon us was known to the king, and done
under his sanction.”
“I would give my life to know the truth,” murmured Marguerite. “Oh! if
they would have taken my liberty in exchange for his!”
Monsieur Jacques drew close to the girl and bent over her.
“Would you give the man who searched out the truth, and afterward saved
your father, something dearer than liberty, your love?” he said.
She looked up earnestly.
“As God witnesseth the promise, I will try!”
Monsieur Jacques fell upon his knees, pressed a burning kiss upon her
hand, dropped it, and left the room.