DESPAIR!
Left alone at last, he walked up and down the huge chamber, or vault,
his mind full of melancholy, heartbroken reflections.
"My God, my God!" he muttered, "what have I done that thus Thou
lettest Thy hand fall so heavily on me? What fresh sin committed, that
this fresh punishment should be mine! I have lost the one thing I
cared for in this life, lost her; now I am incarcerated here in this
place of horror, this place where men's existences, even their very
names, are forgotten as much as though they had lain for years in
their graves; this place which may be my grave." Then, a few moments
later, his heart and courage returned to him, and he murmured to
himself again:
"Yet, I will not repine. That abject creature spoke of others who had
been here and yet escaped, obtained their liberty, all but him, the
hapless Masque de Fer, who drew his last breath in this gloomy
dungeon. Bassompiere, Luxembourg, De Biron, all went forth to the
world again. How many men have I not known myself who have been here?
There was one, the old Comte de Tilly, who told me he had been
incarcerated thirteen times, and that, whenever he saw the exempts in
the street, he took off his hat to them, and asked if by any chance
they happened to be seeking for him. And these walls," he exclaimed,
looking up at the blackened sides of the room, "seem to bear testimony
to many who have inhabited the place."
They did, indeed; for, written all over the grimy and smoky sides of
the vault, were records left by those who had been incarcerated. In
one part of the room near the barred fireplace, through which a child
could not have crept, were the words: "The widow Lailly and her
daughter were brought into this hell on the 27th September, 1701"; in
another place was the name of a Neapolitan prince, one De Riccia, with
his remarkable motto beneath it, "Empoisona ove Strangola." And there
were scores of other names, of all countries: one, that of the
Chevalier Lynch, gentleman, of Sligo in Ireland; another, Jean
Cronier, _redacteur_, "Du Burlesk Gazette," Holland; a third, Magdalen
de St. Michel, while in a different hand underneath was written, "who
slew her husband, a King's sailor;" yet another, "the _Curé_ de Méry,
falsely accused of rioting and drunkenness"; and many more. And, still
continuing his sad patrol of the room, he saw that at each corner of
it were statues of the four Evangelists, so that he understood now why
it should be called the "Room of the Chapel," though why the "second
room" he never learned.
"So," he said, as he mused in his misery, "so this place has been holy
ground, consecrated. Heavens! was ever a place of prayer turned to
such vile use since the Temple became a den of thieves?"
As thus he pondered he heard the doors outside clanging, and a moment
afterwards, the unbarring of the chapel door and the harsh grating of
the key in the lock, a sound which was followed by the entrance of the
turnkey, Bluet--who appeared now more drunk than before--and another
man, also a turnkey.
"Ha!" said the former with a hiccough, "now to arrange the boudoir.
Georges, disgorge thy burden and be gone. I have alone to do with
Monsieur le Capitaine," and, as he spoke, he reeled across the room
with a small folding table he had brought with him and placed it under
the barred and latticed window, where the light streamed on it.
Meanwhile, the other turnkey, Georges, had thrown down a huge bundle
of what was evidently bedding, and departed, to return again a few
moments later, with a tray, on which were several dishes.
"_Voilà!_" Bluet muttered as he arranged the table, "behold your first
meal as guest of Madame la Bastille. A soup--of lentils--_bon! bon!_
some cockscombs in vinegar--_pas mal ça!_ some chip bread, beef full
of gravy, with a garniture of parsley. Also the quarter septier of
wine--and good, too, you see, of Bourgogne. Now for more furniture to
accommodate our new guest." Whereon he reeled off to the passage and
brought back a sound wooden chair, which he placed by the table,
exclaiming, "_Voilà! monsieur est server_."
Seeing that the fellow, in spite of his drunkenness, was doing his
best to treat him well, and reflecting also that much of any comfort
he was likely to obtain might depend on him, Bertie resolved to make a
friend of Bluet if possible; so, sitting down to the meal, he made a
semblance of eating it; and as he did so he said:
"If I did not perceive that already you have been making free enough
with the drink, I would ask you to join me. This great jar," touching
the quarter septier, which contained half a gallon at least, "is more
than I can consume in a week, yet you, I judge, could drink it all at
a sitting."
"_Facilement_. I often do. And the wine is of the best. When St. Mars
was governor here, he robbed the visitors, they say; took the King's
money for the best and gave the worst. De Launey, now, is different."
"He is more generous, then?"
"Nay, more timorous. For, observe, he fears the King should find out
he is being hoodwinked. Yet, all do not drink nor eat alike here. Some
get only a _chopine_ of the thinnest, one _plat_ to each meal, coarse
bread, and no fruit. It depends on the degree of the personage, also
the probability of the length of his visit. Because, you see, Monsieur
le Capitaine, some seem never likely to depart--and there are many
such, I assure you, who become forgotten; there is no hope they will
ever go forth; they have no money to give away in fees--for if a
visitor wishes to reward us for our little cares, he may make an order
on De Launey to distribute some of the money he holds; they become the
guest who has outstayed his welcome. You understand, monsieur?"
He spoke with an air of drunken gravity, and, although in drink,
showed so much intelligence that Bertie guessed this was the man's
normal condition. Also, the latter observed that the state he was in
by no means prevented him from being able to fulfil any duty he had to
perform. Indeed, during the time he had been enlightening Bertie as to
the customs of the Bastille, he had been arranging in a corner of the
room some furniture the other man had come back with, as well as that
which he had originally brought. Thus he had fitted up a little
truckle bedstead in one of the corners near the fireplace and under
the statue of St. Matthew which stood in the wall above, a bedstead
which had some curtains of dirty flowered stuff, with a bag of straw
for a mattress, and also a blanket as dirty as the curtains, and full
of holes, and a quilt of flock. Likewise he had brought in a great
pitcher of water, a ewer and mug, all of which were of pewter.
"_Avec ça_," he said, regarding these things with a look of
satisfaction, "monsieur is well provided. Oh, well provided! Now for
this you must pay six livres a month--none of which comes to me,
alas!--and if you wish more it can be hired. Yet, faith! it is a
chamber for a King. Shall I send for a fagot and make a fire to purge
the air of the room?"
"Nay," said poor Bertie, "it is very well. Yet I would that the
chamber was not so vast; it is large, and draughty, and dark. Can I
not be removed into a better one--at least, a smaller one?"
"That will come if you remain with us. Lengthened sojourns are not
made in this one. So you may content yourself with this, namely, while
you are here--in this apartment--you may go out at any moment. Now, I
have other guests to see to; I will return later with the dinner.
Adieu, monsieur," and he went away, banging, and locking, and barring
the heavy door behind him.
Through the glazed window above, which had two great shutters to it
that were always closed, but had an iron gate or smaller window within
them, while outside was a green wooden lattice, Bertie could see that
the sun was shining; nay, a ray or so even forced its way through the
iron gate and illuminated a foot's breadth all along the dungeon, or
room. In one way it was, perhaps, not very welcome, for it showed
plainly the filthy condition of the floor, all incrusted with dirt as
it was, and with other refuse, such as small meat-bones, fish-bones,
egg-shells, and pieces of bread-crust trodden into it. Yet, also, to
his sad heart it brought some comfort; it spoke to him of the world
without, of the gay streets and gardens of Paris; of her, his love.
What was she doing now, he pondered; would she soon be wondering what
had become of him, and why, as once before--so long, so long ago, as
now it seemed--he had again disappeared from her and made no sign? Or
would he be free before Thursday came again?
He thought, looking round the gloomy chapel, while he considered and
mused on these things, that his head might reach that little iron
gate, or _grille_, in the shutters if he placed upon the table the
chair and then stood on that, and thus he would be able to obtain a
sight of what was outside. So he set to work to place them in
position, and then, on clambering up, found that he could obtain a
view of the garden of the Bastille, and, owing to a low-roofed portion
of the fortress almost immediately in front of him, of away beyond
into the city.
In the garden he perceived a lady walking, accompanied by a dog that
seemed from its action to be very old, for it moved slowly and feebly
without any gambols; and he wondered who she was, and if she might be
De Launey's wife, who was "young enough to be his daughter." The
garden itself, he could also perceive, since the chapel was no higher
than the first floor, formed the interior, or courtyard, of all towers
of the prison, and he saw that, by glancing upwards, the windows of
other rooms, or cells, were visible to him. Indeed, not only were they
visible, but so also was one of the inmates, who, as Bertie observed
him, was leaning against his little window frame with his face at the
bars as though to catch the air. He was a man somewhat over middle
age, with scowling features and long, unkempt hair, and as Bertie
regarded him he saw his lips moving as though either he was talking
to some fellow-prisoner within the room or muttering to himself.
This man fascinated Elphinston so that he could not remove his eyes
from off him--for in those other eyes there seemed to be a hell of
despair--and, as he thus looked, the man, shifting his gaze, glanced
down and across, and so saw him at his lattice. For a moment he stared
at Bertie and then made a motion to him with his finger--it seemed as
though to bid him stay where he was--and then disappeared from the
window to return a moment later with a little piece of light board in
one hand to which he pointed with the other.
Made more curious than ever by this, Elphinston continued to regard
him and his actions fixedly, which were as follows: First the man held
up in his right hand--his left still grasping the board--something
that appeared like a piece of burnt wood, and then, applying it to the
board, drew on it the letter N. Pointing to it, he next drew the
letters O, U, and V, then E, then A, then another U, until at last he
had spelt out the whole of the word _Nouveau_. Next, after a glance
across at Bertie, as though to ask if he understood, and seeing that
he did, he again went on with four more letters, making the word
_Venu_, and carefully finishing the sentence by drawing, last of all,
a solitary note of interrogation, and looking over to Bertie as though
awaiting his reply to the question. Receiving from him two or three
emphatic nods of the head, he began again, and this time produced a
longer sentence, which, by recollecting each word as it had been
found, Bertie made out to be (in French, of course), "I have been here
twenty-one years."
At this melancholy information he tried to throw into his
features--for no action of his body could be at all apparent to the
man--as much sympathy as was possible, whereon the other again pointed
to his board and continued with his letters until he had formed the
sentence, "Have you been before the Judges?" and receiving a negative
shake from Bertie's head, again worked out, "_Nor I, yet_," and waited
as though to see what effect this stupendous piece of information
might have on a newly-arrived prisoner.
If the unhappy man desired to see horror depicted on that newcomer's
face--if such a sight could be gratifying to him who had lived
forgotten there so long, without, perhaps, even knowing why he was so
detained, he must indeed have been gratified. For as that terrible
sentence came out letter by letter on the board, Bertie shrank back
from the lattice, while his countenance must plainly have shown to the
other the emotions of pity mixed with dread and dismay with which the
communication had filled him. "Twenty-one years," he muttered to
himself, forgetting even for the moment his new-found acquaintance
opposite, "twenty-one years without knowing what he is charged with;
without hope. My God! what has his life been during that time;
waiting, waiting always! And it may be so with me," he thought,
shuddering as he did so, "it may be my case. I am twenty-six years old
now; at forty-seven I may still be in this prison, untried,
uncondemned, yet unreleased--no nearer to my freedom than now." And
again he shuddered.
He glanced over to the unhappy prisoner in the opposite tower as he
finished these reflections, and saw that he was waiting for his
attention to begin his letters again. And, once more fascinated by
their terrible revelations, he watched eagerly as the next sentence
was formed.
Slowly the words were composed, letter by letter; slowly they met his
eyes, and seemed to numb his brain and strike a chill to his heart. "I
am not the worst case," the prisoner spelt out. "Above you in the Tour
de la Bertaudière is one who has been here for forty-two years.
Untried still!" Then, with a wave of his hand, the man vanished from
his window--perhaps because he heard the gaoler coming into his
room--and Bertie saw him no more that day.
Yet that which he had gleaned from his opposite neighbour was enough
to furnish him with sufficient food for miserable reflections all
through the remainder of the day, and far into the night when he lay
sleepless on his unclean bed. Bluet had visited him twice during that
period, bringing him two more meals--each good enough in its way, and
with different meats at each, but badly cooked; and on the second
occasion, and when he could perceive through the lattice that night
was coming on, the turnkey had offered to let him have some light if
he wished it. High up above the latticed window there was an iron
socket into which a candle could be fitted, or on to which a lamp
might be swung, and Bluet had volunteered to bring in a ladder and
place the light there if Elphinston desired it. But he replied, "No,
he wanted nothing. He would try to sleep till daybreak, try to rest.
The day had been long enough for him already."
"_Ma foi! sans doute!_" the fellow replied, he seeming neither more
nor less drunk than he had been at nine o'clock in the morning. "_Sans
doute_, monsieur is fatigued, yet he must not lose heart. If the
judges do not release him ere long, he shall be moved to another
chamber where, perhaps, he will have some society. There is plenty
here. Of all sorts. Then monsieur will be gay."
"Gay!" exclaimed Bertie. "Gay! In this place?"
"And why not? Oh, figure to yourself, there is gaiety here and to
suffice. Hark now to that! Hark, I say!" and at the moment he spoke
Bertie heard a voice in his own tongue trolling forth a drinking song.
"Ha! ha! _Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed the turnkey, "it is the gallant
captain. Also a captain like monsieur, but of the road. They say he
stopped the Cardinal's carriage at Fontainebleau not so long ago, yet
this he denies. And a spy, too, of England, they say. He plays the big
game. _Mon Dieu!_ listen! he sings well, though I understand no word
of your somewhat severe and sombre tongue."
Severe and sombre though it might be, it did not sound so as the
gallant captain shouted forth his drinking song.
"He's gay," said Bluet; "he has found a new companion--one, however,
who will scarce join in his mirth. A miserable creature sent in by the
priests, a murderer, they hint. _Mon Dieu!_ either he will desolate
the captain or the captain will drive him mad with his carousings."
After which, and having wished Bertie "a good-night and good repose,"
he took himself off, and, ere the latter slept, he could have sworn he
heard Bluet's harsh voice joining in a song with the captain, though
this time in the French language.
"So," he thought to himself as, after having knelt by his wretched bed
and prayed for mercy from his God, he flung himself upon it, "so 'tis
to this pass I am brought--I, who have served the French King
faithfully for years, who have committed no crime against him. And am
I doomed to remain here forgotten? Perhaps be like that other one with
whom I communicated to-day, or that still more unhappy man whose life
has been spent in these awful walls. Forty-two years, he said of
him--forty-two years!" And again he applied that second case to
himself as he had done the first. "Forty-two years! I shall be then
sixty-six. All, all will be dead and gone. My mother long since, Kate
almost of a certainty; Douglas, too; even the scoundrel Fordingbridge!
O God!" he cried, wrought up by these reflections, "release me from
this place, I beseech Thee, release me; even though it be only by
death. Let me not linger on here untried for a fault I know not of,
uncondemned and forgotten. Take my life, but not my freedom while I
live. What have I done? What have I done?" And with such a heartbroken
prayer as this on his lips Bertie Elphinston fell asleep at last, if
that can be termed sleep which was no more than a disturbed
forgetfulness--a broken slumber from which he would wake with a start
as some sound from other parts of the prison penetrated his chamber,
or a rat would scamper across his bed and touch his hand with its
foul, dank coat.