AT LAST.
The days went on slowly and without anything to distinguish them from
one another, until, at last, it seemed to Bertie in his dungeon that
he would soon lose count of them, would forget how many had passed
since first he entered the prison, and would become confused as to the
days of the week. Every night he heard the roaring of the English
"captain"--if such he was--and every day he communicated with the
prisoner in the tower opposite to him, but these alone were the
incidents of his life, for beyond the visits of Bluet with his meals,
no one came near him. And he thought ever of what those outside would
imagine had become of him. With that opposite prisoner, for whose
appearance at his window he looked eagerly every morning, he had now
established an almost perfect system of corresponding, so that,
although their intercourse was naturally very slow, it was at least
something with which to beguile many weary hours. He had been unable
to discover any board which would answer to the one on which his
strangely made friend wrote and rubbed out letter after letter and
formed his words, but as he had found several large pieces of paper in
a corner of the chapel, he had managed to shape a number of large
letters--indeed, all of the alphabet--which, by holding each up
successively, answered the purpose equally well. And thus they
corresponded slowly and wearily, but still intelligibly, and in that
way the monotony of their lives was relieved. Yet even this was not
always practicable, and sometimes they had to desist from
communicating with each other at all since, on certain days the
sentries were set on the tower in which the man was, and would have
discovered their correspondence had they not discontinued it. But at
other times the men's duty took them to other parts of the prison
roof--for the _corps de garde_ was not strong, the walls, locks, and
bars being alone considered sufficient to prevent any attempt at
escape--and then they were uninterrupted.
"I am alone in my cell," the other had communicated to Bertie, "and my
name is Falmy. I am of Geneva. Of the Reformed faith. I know of no
other reason why I am here so long. Fleury sent me here the year
before he was Cardinal."
Every morning, however, he prefaced any other message to Bertie by the
question, "Have you been examined yet?" and as each day the other
shook his head he seemed by his expression to show that he regretted
such was the case.
"If you are not examined soon, your stay may be long. But take heart,"
he signalled, "the principal examiner is extremely irregular, yet he
comes at last in most cases."
"He has not done so in yours, poor friend," returned Bertie, "nor in
the case of him who has been here forty-two years! Who is he?"
"Le Marquis de Chevagny, of near Chartres. It was the Grand Monarque
who sent him here. He is forgotten. In December he will have been here
forty-three years."
"What was his fault?"
"He wrote a _pasquinade_ on Madame La Vallière. She obtained the
lettre de cachet from the King."
"And," signalled back Bertie, "for that he has suffered forty-three
years!"
"He will suffer till he dies. Louis and La Vallière have been long
dead, so have all of their time. He is forgotten. He will never go
forth. Nor shall I. Those who are forgotten are lost."
With such recitals as these it was not surprising that Bertie's heart
should sink ever lower; that as days followed days and grew at last
into weeks, he began to feel sure that for him the gates of his prison
would never open. He, too, would be forgotten by those who had sent
him there; would he, he asked himself, be forgotten by those who loved
him? No one knew that he was incarcerated in those dreadful walls,
that fortress in which one was as much shut off from the world as in a
tomb. No one would ever know!
He consulted Falmy one day as to whether there was no possibility of
communicating with that outer world, no chance of letting some friend
who could interest himself in his behalf know where he was, but in
reply the other only shook his head moodily. Then, after staring out
of his window for some moments, with always in his face that look of
despair which Bertie had observed from the first and had been so
fascinated by, Falmy made a sign to him to attend, and began his
letters again.
"There is," he signalled, "one chance alone, be confined with some
prisoner whose release may come while you are together. Then to send a
message to your friends. By word of mouth alone. No written line can
go forth. All are searched for letters ere they are let go."
Bertie thought a moment, then he asked: "Can I get changed to another
room?" Again Falmy shook his head gloomily and pondered. But another
thought appeared to come to his mind, and he signalled:
"You will be changed ere long if you are not released or examined.
None remain in the chapel who are to stay in this devil's den. I have
made many friends at your window, and lost them all. Soon I shall lose
you," and as he finished the last word Bertie saw Falmy's face working
piteously and knew that he wept. And he, his heart torn with both
their griefs, wept too, and left his window suddenly to throw himself
on his bed.
And still the days went on, and the weeks, and he knew, by the notches
he made on the wall as each fresh dawn broke, as well as by the
increased cold, that the depth of winter had come. On the roof of the
Tour de la Bertaudière he could see the snow lying now, or heard it
fall into the garden with a thud when a slight thaw happened, while
the cold became so intense that neither he nor Falmy could stay long
at the window to communicate with each other. He had given various
little orders to Bluet for payment out of his stock of Louis d'ors
during this time, so that the man still looked after him well, and he
had a few fagots of wood allowed him, or rather found him, in
consequence, over which he would sit and shiver, though the large
bulging bars in front of the grate prevented him from getting near
enough to the sticks to derive much warmth from them. And often he was
driven to seek his pallet and lie huddled up in the foul bedding to
keep himself from perishing.
And still the weeks went on now, and he was there, though he had
begged the turnkey to ask the Governor to remove him to a warmer and
smaller room, and also to some place where he might have company. But
Bluet had only shrugged his shoulders and said that such a request was
useless, adding that De Launey was a brigand who would do nothing
until it pleased him.
"Yet," replied Bertie, "he said he would do his best for me and make
me comfortable. Comfortable! comfortable! My God!"
"Poof! poof?" exclaimed Bluet. "You must not believe in him. He is
full of words to those who come in--_le sal Gascon!_--because he knows
not how soon they may go out again, nor whether they may not have come
in by mistake--as _mon Dieu!_ many have--nor what trouble those who go
out may plunge him into. But once he finds they are not going--that is
to say, not going just at once--why, then he possesses the Bastille
memory which, _ma foi!_ means an agreeable forgetfulness. _Tenez!_
have no hopes from that shivering _escargot!_"
"I am doomed, then, to die in this vault--to be killed by the cold and
the draughts!"
"_Non, non_, be calm. You will go forth. None but princes and marshals
stay long here. And there has been a clearing from above; many have
departed; there is room for you now. Soon I shall remove monsieur."
"Who are gone? Any who have been here long?"
"No. Many new ones, and one who was here eight years--by a mistake. He
was a Hollander, a doctor, and--_mort de ma vie!_--they thought he was
Schwab, the Alsatian poisoner. He now is gone, and the pig, De Launey,
entertained him to breakfast ere he went, though he would allow him
only _la petite bouteille_ while he remained. And the captain of the
road, the sweet singer of songs, he is gone too, only 'tis to the
Place de Grève, for a certain purpose," and he motioned to his throat
as he spoke and winked at the other, who shuddered. Vile and dissolute
as the man's roarings and carousals had been, they had served to cheer
him up in his loneliness and desolation, and he regretted his fate.
Another week passed, and Bertie, who had now contracted a terrible
cold and cough that plagued him at nights, began to believe that he
would never leave the chapel alive, when Bluet, coming with his
breakfast one morning, told him that he was to be moved.
"Thank God!" exclaimed the poor prisoner, "thank God! it cannot be
worse than this."
"No," said the turnkey, "because where you are going to you will find
_la société_. Though, _par hazard_, I know not if it will enchant you
much. There is the oldest pensioner of Madame La Bastille, the Marquis
de Chevagny--a sad man, taking little enjoyment of his life--though he
should be used to it by now! and another, a fool, a madman, they say a
murderer. But I know not. However, he is a compatriot of Monsieur le
Capitaine, an Englishman."
"What is his name?" asked Bertie.
"Monsieur, to many there are no names in the Bastille. Only numbers,
with few exceptions, such as that of De Chevagny, of whom we are
justly proud. He is a credit to us and to our care. Still, I doubt not
you will soon find out the idiot's name. He has his sane moments,
though they are few. But his principal remark is that he trusts the
wheel is not too painful. 'Tis to that he is bound to go."
"An idiot! And sent to the wheel, even though a murderer! Will they do
that?"
"Faith, they will. For, _tenez_, monsieur"--and he laid a dirty finger
along his nose and looked slyly at Bertie--"he is a prisoner of the
Church, of the priests. He has outraged them. Do you think he will
escape their claws if he were forty thousand times as mad?"
"When shall I join this company?" asked Bertie. "I shall be glad to
go. At least, the Marquis de Chevagny should be an interesting
companion."
"At once. I will go fetch Pierre to assist in carrying up your baggage
and furniture, and then the King's Lieutenant will escort you to the
_calotte_. And, cheer up, 'tis high, but pleasant; you can see _tout
Paris_, and the top windows of the Rue St. Antoine. _Ma foi!_ a gay
view, a fine retreat."
While the man was gone, Bertie placed the table and chair against the
wall and sprang on top of them, and since it was Falmy's usual time
for being at the window, was happy in finding him there. "Adieu," he
signalled as rapidly as he possibly could, "I go to one of the
_calottes_. I pray we may be able to correspond as before." Then in an
instant he knew by the light in Falmy's face that such was the case,
for he nodded and himself began to signal back: "If not the one above
me, we can. I----" but at this moment Bertie heard Bluet coming back
to the door, and, hurriedly jumping down, replaced the chair and table
in their accustomed position. He had never been able to judge whether
the turnkey would have remonstrated at this correspondence with
another prisoner, and perhaps have caused it to be stopped. He did
not, indeed, think he would do so, but he had always taken precautions
to prevent him knowing what they did, and he took them now on this the
last occasion.
Bluet was attended by the other turnkey, Pierre, and accompanied by
the King's Lieutenant, who was second in command in the prison; and
while the two former busied themselves in getting together his bed and
linen, as well as his furniture, the latter addressed him with that
French etiquette and politeness which so often does duty for
kind-heartedness.
"Monsieur has, I trust, found himself as comfortable as circumstances
will permit," he said, "and has wanted for nothing. The food served in
this chapel is always of the first order."
"I have nothing to complain of," replied Elphinston; "since I am here,
I must take what comes. Yet, I wish you would answer me a question or
so, monsieur. You are, or have been, a soldier, like myself. May not
that ancient comradeship of arms make you gracious enough to do so?"
"It is not the graciousness I lack," replied the officer, "it is the
power. For, Monsieur Elphinston, you must surely know we are vowed to
silence and secrecy within these walls. It is more than our posts,
nay, our heads, are worth to answer questions or divulge secrets."
"If I could know," said Bertie, "when I shall be interrogated it would
be much."
"No mortal man in the Bastille can tell you that," the King's
Lieutenant interrupted, "not even De Launey himself. The examiner, or
judge, comes at fitful times and without warning. He came a week ago;
he may come again next week; he may not come again for a year, or for
two years."
"Is it because he did not concern himself with my case a week ago that
I am now moved?" Bertie asked wistfully; "is it because I am passed
over and may have to wait a long time now that this change takes
place?"
The officer shrugged his shoulders and turned his face away. He was a
soldier and had a heart within him, in spite of being the Lieutenant
of the Bastille, and he could not reply that Bertie had guessed
accurately, that it was because he had been passed over, and might, in
consequence, be passed over for years, that he was now removed from
the chapel.
"I see. I understand," Bertie said. "I understand very well. I may
linger on here till I am old; I may become, if I live long enough, the
oldest prisoner!" Then, once more addressing the Lieutenant, he said,
though without any hope of receiving an answer:
"If I could only know to whom or what I owe this incarceration it
might ease my mind; might, perhaps, enable me to confute the charge
that in years to come may be brought against me. Can you not help
me!--me, a brother soldier?"
Bluet and Pierre had left the chapel with the furniture and bedding,
so that they were alone now, and the Lieutenant, glancing round the
place, said softly:
"Have you no suspicion? Can you not guess? Does not your memory point
to one whom you have injured?"
"My memory," replied Bertie, "points to one who has injured me and
those I love so deeply that, if had the power, he would have caused me
to be sent here. But even his devilish malignity could not procure him
that. He cannot have the power."
He had thought of Fordingbridge over and over again as the man whose
hand might have inflicted this last deadly blow, yet he could never
convince himself that it could indeed be he. He would be almost as
much an outcast now, if in the city, as he would have been in London
with a price upon his head. How, he had asked himself, could it be
Fordingbridge?
And the Lieutenant's next words, uttered in almost a whisper, in spite
of their being still alone, seemed to confirm his doubts.
"Think again," he said; "reflect on some other than this one you
mention; on one whom you injured, whose ambition you thwarted in its
dearest design; on one who is powerful, has the ear of the King, who
could send you here, and did so. Reflect!"
Bertie drew back in amazement and stared at the Lieutenant, unable to
believe his own ears. Then he repeated:
"Whose ambition I thwarted! One who is powerful--the friend of the
King! Oh, 'tis impossible, impossible! Some awful mistake has been
made. I know no one such as that. No one."
Then, clasping his hands together, while his voice rang out clear and
distinct in that vaulted chapel, he exclaimed, "For God's sake, help
me in this! For God's sake, tell me to whom you refer!"
"Hush!" said the other. "Hush! They are coming back. And as for the
name, it must never pass my lips. If the recollection of your own
actions cannot help you now, I can do no more;" and, seeing the
turnkeys at the door, he said in his usual tones, "Monsieur, follow me
to your new apartment."
Dazed with what he had heard, Elphinston obeyed him, and slowly
they went through the gloomy passages and up more stairs through
iron-plated doors, until they stood at the one which opened into the
_calotte_ of the tower above the chapel--so called because, being the
topmost chamber in the roof, it resembled a _calotte_, or fool's cap,
or extinguisher.
"Messieurs," said the Lieutenant to the inmates of the room when the
door had been unlocked and unbarred, "allow me to present to you a
comrade. Let me trust you will be agreeable to each other. Monsieur de
Chevagny, you are the father of the house; I commit him to you." Then,
glancing over to a bed in the corner, on which a dark-haired man lay
sleeping with his face turned to the wall, the Lieutenant shrugged his
shoulders and said, "_Mon Dieu! le fou_ sleeps heavily. Well, we need
not disturb him. No presentations are necessary with him."
The man addressed as Chevagny--whom Bertie could not but regard with
interest, despite the whirl in which his brain was at the strange,
inexplicable revelations of the Lieutenant--rose with courtesy from a
chair as his name was mentioned, and, coming towards Bertie, held out
a thin hand. His hair was snow-white and of great length, while his
face, partly from age and partly, perhaps, from long confinement, was
shrivelled and wan. What his clothes might have originally been it was
impossible to guess; now they were a mass of rags and tatters, patched
in some places, in others hanging in shreds. Round his neck he wore
for a cravat the sleeve of an old shirt; while the soles of his shoes,
which were full of holes, were joined to the upper parts by pieces of
pack thread. All over his face there grew a great beard as white as
the hair on his head, and this may have helped to keep him warm,
especially as over his breast it was tucked inside a shirt that was
almost black from long wear. Yet, with all this ragged misery, those
features of his face which his hair and beard allowed to be seen were
refined and elegant, were the features of a well-born man.
"Sir," he said to Bertie as he held out his hand, "what there is here
I welcome you to, and I can only pray that it may not be your lot to
grow as familiar with this place as I have become. For now--now--" and
Bertie could see his old lips tremble as he spoke, "this place has
grown through my unhappiness to be the only spot on earth that I know
of--my only home."
"Monsieur le Marquis," said Bertie, "for your greeting, sad as it is
and sad as is the spot where we meet, I thank you. So long as I am
here--so long!--I shall respect and pity you."
He had taken no heed of the figure on the bed while he was speaking,
having, indeed, his back turned to it, but now it forced him to
observe it.
For, as he spoke for the first time, that figure--its wild eyes
staring as though about to start from its head, and its hands opening
and shutting convulsively--was kneeling on the bed, muttering,
whining, gasping behind him.
And, turning round suddenly and seeing its contortions and its awful
maniacal fear, Bertie reeled back across the _calotte_, exclaiming:
"My God! Fordingbridge! Face to face at last!"