THE MARQUIS GOES HOME.
The turnkey had provided a _fiacre_ for them, and into this they
stepped from the outside of the great gate, while Bluet; looking as
sad as though he were parting for ever from his dearest friends, asked
where the man should be instructed to drive them to? Strange to say,
neither had given any thought to this matter, though, had Bertie been
alone, no consideration would have been necessary on the subject. His
mother's house would have been his destination; for, although often
and often in his misery he had mused on whether she was still alive,
and on whether she would ever fold him in her arms again, nothing
would have kept him from going straight to Passy and at once resolving
his doubts.
But now, with De Chevagny by his side--a poor old man cast back into
an unknown world after nearly half a century's exclusion from it--he
could not leave him; he must be his first consideration.
"Dear friend," he said, while still Bluet stood by the coach door,
"have you thought of where we shall proceed to? Will you go to your
own home first, or come to mine--if--if--God! if I have any left
there. At least we will not part--or not now, not now."
The poor, old marquis wrapped the dark blue cloak they had provided
him with around him as the other spoke, for the December morning,
although bright and sunny, was cold and crisp, then he said, "Home! to
my home? What home have I?"
"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed Bluet, consoling to the last, "_sans doute_, a
beautiful home. Monsieur must well remember--even I, a prison
watch-dog, have heard of it--the Hôtel de Chevagny. Monsieur will
doubtless go there. And, _parbleu!_ when I have a day's release from
my labours, I shall make a little visit to the marquis. He will be
glad to see his old friend and servant, Bluet _N'est ce pas?_"
"Yes," the marquis whispered, dazed, as it seemed to the others, by
his freedom--"yes, I shall always be glad to see you, Bluet. Let us
go--let us go," and he held out his hand to the turnkey, as did
Bertie.
"Hôtel de Chevagny," said Bluet to the driver; "you know it without
doubt. Away with you to the house of the noble marquis!"
"De Chevagny!" said the man from his box--"De Chevagny! No, I know it
not. What is the quarter?"
"St. Germain, naturally. Monsieur," looking in again at the window,
"the name of the street--of the street, monsieur?" he repeated, seeing
that the marquis appeared to scarcely understand him. But a moment
later he muttered:
"The Rue Charles Martel. That is it."
"Bon!" said the coachman, he having caught the words--"_bon!_ Rue
Charles Martel," and as once more Bluet exchanged farewells with them,
he lashed his horse and drove off, while De Chevagny cast one last
look on the Bastille and shuddered.
"Forty-five years," he murmured, "forty-five years. A young man when I
entered there, an old man now--worn out and near his end."
"Nay, nay," said Bertie, "do not think so. Remember, you may find many
alive who are still dear to you. Let us pray so at least."
But the marquis, burying his head in the collar of his cloak, spoke no
more, though Bertie, regarding him from time to time, saw that he was
gazing out and observing the places they passed by; and as they
traversed the Pont Neuf, he observed a brighter look in his face than
he had hitherto seen. "This, at least, has not changed," he muttered.
"It is the same as when I was young--as when I passed over it to go to
the Bastille. Forty-five years ago!--forty-five years ago!"
Presently--for it was no great distance from the Quartier St. Antoine
to that of St. Germain--the hackney coach arrived at the end of the
Rue Charles Martel; a long, sad-looking street, having high walls all
along it into which were set great wooden gates, and behind which were
large courtyards belonging to the various mansions or hotels of the
nobility. Yet, as they entered this street and observed a large,
modern, and very gaunt-looking house, De Chevagny seemed more
bewildered than ever, and raised his finger to his forehead as though
confused.
"I--I--do not understand," he said. "Has the man mistaken the way?
Bellancourt's house stood here--years ago--when I was a lad. I have
played in the gardens often--oh, so often, with his children! It was
an old, old house, built in the days of Henri of Navarre. Where is it?
That is not it."
"This is a new building," replied Bertie; "is it not possible the
present owner may have removed the old one to make way for this?"
"Yes, yes," De Chevagny whispered--"yes, it is forty-five years ago. I
should have remembered. Forty-five years ago. And sixty since I played
under the cedars in the garden. My God!"
The hackney carriage rolled along slowly, for in this old-fashioned
street the road, like so many in Paris in those days, was far from
good, and a slight thaw had now set in which rendered it particularly
heavy. Then, looking out, the marquis pointed to an antique mansion
the roofs of which could be seen behind the walls.
"See," he said excitedly, "see, it is the house of De Montpouillan,
the man whom the King delighted to honour! I was at a ball there three
nights before I was taken, and he--Louis, the Grand Monarque--was
there too. He danced in the ballet[9] with the daughter of St.
Hillaire, a blonde whose hair shone like the gold of a new _Louis
d'or_. _Mon Dieu!_ observe--there is a hatchment over the house.
Someone is dead."
Again Bertie tried to soothe him by reminding him that, whomsoever it
might be, he could scarcely have known them after his long and
terrible absence; yet this consolation, unhappy as it was, only served
to remind him of his own sad fate and to set him once more murmuring,
"Forty-five years!"
But a moment afterwards he gave a gasp--a cry, indeed--and exclaimed:
"My house! my house! See, see, it is there!" and called feebly to the
driver to stop.
Above the walls Bertie could perceive the red tiles of a long, low
hotel; could observe also that in many places some of those tiles had
fallen away and left great gaps yawning; and also that the whole gave
signs of being in a ruinous condition. The huge, double wooden gates
hung loosely on their hinges, while one or two beams in them bulged
inward from rottenness and the lock, once large and handsome and a
triumph of the smith's art, was rusted and almost fallen from its
wooden socket.
"Alas! alas!" thought Elphinston to himself, "it is not here that he
will find his wife or child. He must look farther for them--perhaps in
heaven!--who knows? Poor De Chevagny--poor, unhappy man!"
There hung a great iron bell-handle on the side of the vast door, and
the marquis, grasping it, rang a peal that could be heard echoing in
the house itself across the courtyard--a peal that met with no
response. Then they waited for a minute or two, the marquis leaning on
Bertie's arm and gazing up wistfully into his face, as though seeking
to read therein what his thoughts might be, and the driver staring
over the wall at the unshuttered and uncurtained windows.
"_Mon Dieu!_" the man muttered to himself so that they could not hear
him, "after having dwelt in the _palais des grenouilles_[10] so long,
it is not strange if the master is no more expected," and he cracked
his whip vigorously as though hoping, perhaps, to thereby attract some
attention from within.
Still the old man looked up sadly at his companion's face, and
muttered, "My home, my home!" so ruefully that the other had to turn
away from him so that he should not see his eyes; and then Bertie,
seizing the bell handle, rang a strong, lusty peal upon it.
"If there is anyone here," he said, "that should arouse them. The bell
has a tongue that might wake the dead!"
He could have bitten his own tongue out a moment later, for at his
words, especially the last one, De Chevagny started, and then
muttered, "The dead--the dead. Ah! it is the dead who never come back
to us. They are gone. All are gone! When shall we meet again? Never,
never, never!"
As though in answer to that question which his own weary heart had
answered for itself, a door was heard to open in the front of the
house--it creaked wofully on its hinges--and then steps were also
heard upon the stones of the courtyard, the steps of someone in
sabots, and next the key was turned in the rusty lock and one half of
the great gate pulled back; following upon which, a woman of about
forty years of age appeared at the doorway, and, after regarding the
_fiacre_ and the young man with the old one now leaning so heavily on
his arm, asked them what they desired.
"To come into my own house," said the latter, looking at her, though
he could see at once that she had been born since he last stood upon
that spot. "I am the Marquis de Chevagny."
She was not an uncomely-looking woman, neither did she appear hard nor
severe; still she answered, with a look of suspicion in her face:
"There is no Marquis de Chevagny. The title exists no longer."
"Yet," said the old man feebly, "I am he. This is my house. Woman, I
have but left the Bastille an hour ago. I have been a prisoner there
for forty-five years."
She took a step backward, as though to regard him more particularly,
while her brow wrinkled a little and her colour came and went, as she
exclaimed, "My God, it is not possible!"
"It is true," he said. "I pray you let me enter. I am very old and
feeble--older than even I should be by my years--and--and this _is_ my
house. Do not refuse me!"
"Enter," the woman said, pulling wider open the door. "And
this--monsieur," glancing at Bertie, "who is he?"
"I also have been a prisoner in the Bastille, though for only a short
space of time in comparison with his. I beseech you," he said, sinking
his voice to a whisper, "answer him very gently--especially when he
asks you of--of his family."
"I understand," the woman said in return as she walked by their
side across the courtyard, in which one or two fowls were strutting
about--"I understand. Is he truly the marquis?"
"He is, indeed."
"God help him!" and as she spoke, they reached the door of the house.
They entered a great hall with a tiled floor and, above it at the
back, a window of stained glass, some panes of which were broken--a
hall in which there was no furniture except a plain oaken bench, that
looked as though it had been used to chop wood upon; and on to this
the Marquis de Chevagny sank, exhausted already, while Bertie,
saddened at such a home-coming as this, stood by to cheer and comfort
him if possible.
"This is not as I left it," the old man said as his glance roved round
the spacious but empty hall. "Has there been no one to guard it?"
Then, as though such trifles were unworthy of consideration, he asked
eagerly, while a strange light shone from his eyes: "I had a wife, a
child, when they took me from here. Are they--they--still alive?"
"Is it possible monsieur does not know?"
"Know! What should I know? Woman, I tell you I have been dead to the
world for forty-five years--buried alive in a place to which no news
ever comes. Where," he continued, "where are my wife and child?"
"Alas! monsieur," she said, seeming while she spoke as though
endeavouring to avoid answering him, "I have heard of you from my
father; he was _garde chasse_ at the Château de Chevagny many years
ago."
"Lenoir! Was he your father?"
"Yes, monsieur, but he has been dead these twenty years; and then----"
"My wife and child!" he interrupted--"my wife and child! Are they
dead, too?"
"Alas! monsieur, I never saw Madame la Marquise. She--she--died the
year I was born."
De Chevagny straightened himself upon the bench--as he did so there
came to Bertie's recollection how his own father had so straightened
himself as he died in his arms a few years before, and he wondered why
he recalled that incident at this moment--then the marquis said:
"The year you were born? How old are you?"
"Forty-one, monsieur."
"Forty-one!" he whispered, "forty-one! So! she lived four years.
Four years. And I--I--have been hoping, praying--O God! how I have
prayed!--to see her again--to see her again, while for forty-one years
she has been lying in her grave--in her grave!"
He paused awhile, perhaps because he heard the sobs of Bertie and the
woman mingling with his own; then he said:
"And the little child--my dear, dear little babe! Is--is she dead,
too?"
"_Non_, monsieur--at least I think not. She----"
"Thank God!"
"She married, very young, the Vicomte de Brunet," the woman answered
through her tears, "and went with him to Guadeloupe; and sometimes, at
intervals, she writes to her friends in Paris, and they send me news
of her. Also, she has once written to me."
"And she is well? Has she children of her own, perhaps?"
"No, monsieur. Her marriage has not been so blessed by the _bon
Dieu!_"
He sat thinking awhile, meditating deeply ere he spoke again; then he
said:
"But this house and the château--they were good properties; we have
drawn large sums from them for generations. Who takes the rents, the
produce, now--to whom do they belong?"
"To the state, I have heard, monsieur; to the King; though, it is
said, in trust only. Yet, I know not. I cannot say. But I suppose so.
Twice annually a monsieur comes from the minister of the King to visit
us, and twice, also, I hear, one visits the château. If all has been
saved for you, monsieur, during your long absence, you should be very
rich."
"Rich," he repeated--"rich! very rich! Yes, yes, very rich." Then,
turning on the woman suddenly, almost fiercely for him, he asked:
"Where--where, do you know--did my wife die? Where did my little child
live until she married? If the state, the King, took possession of my
property, they would not let them stay here nor at the château."
"Madame la Marquise went back to stay with her father after monsieur
had gone away. Mademoiselle de Chevagny lived with him also until she
married." Then, observing that the old man looked even more feeble and
drawn than she had at first noticed, she said: "But, monsieur, do not
stay here in this cold hall. Come into the saloon, I beg of you. There
is no fire, but I can soon make one. Come, monsieur, come."
Slowly leaning on Bertie's arm, he rose at her behest--and now the
latter perceived that he weighed more heavily on him than before--and,
all together, they went into a fair-sized _salon_, or morning-room, to
the left of the corridor; while the woman, preceding them, made haste
to open the window shutters and to let a flood of light from the
wintry sun pour into the room.
It seemed to have been left much as it must have been in those
long-past years, when so dreadful a doom had fallen upon that unhappy
family--perhaps had scarcely undergone any alteration since those
days. Upon the walls there hung several pictures: one, of a man in
half armour, bearing a strong resemblance to him who now tottered on
Bertie's arm; another, of an elderly woman, of a long anterior date; a
third, of a young man in all the bravery of the rich apparel of Louis
XIV's date, a young man with bright blue eyes and a joyous smile--De
Chevagny himself. Also, there were many chairs, none very comfortable,
since, fifty years before this time, comfortable chairs were almost
unknown articles; a table or so and a tabouret; also a woman's
worktable in a corner by the fireplace with, above it, a painting of a
fair young girl with a soft, gentle expression, done in what was, at
the period in which it was painted, quite a new style--the style of
Antoine Watteau--and much embellished with a rural landscape behind
the portrait.
With a gasp, a cry of recognition, De Chevagny regarded this portrait
in the light of the thin December sun, and then, leaning now so
heavily on Bertie's arm as to be almost entirely held up and supported
by him, he exclaimed:
"See! see! She has come back to me; we have met again! Again, Jeanne,
my love, my wife, my dear! O Jeanne, Jeanne, we shall be so happy
now!"
The woman and Bertie regarded each other significantly, though neither
could speak from emotion, while De Chevagny addressed the latter,
saying:
"See! there is the table where nightly she sits and works, making
little things for the child that is to come--the babe that shall make
us so happy. Here," and he put his finger on a gilt nail by the
chimney-piece, "where she hangs her workbasket at night; here," and he
pointed to a low stool, "where I sit by her side and tell her all I
have done at the court."
He broke off, and appeared to be listening.
"Hark!" he said, "hark! It is striking eleven--we are going to
bed--the great _cloche_ is ringing; there is a noise in the courtyard.
God!" he screamed, "it is full of torches; the exempts are there; they
have come to seize me--to drag me to the Bastille--to part us! Hide!
oh, hide me!"
"Courage, courage, dear friend," said Bertie, soothingly, as he held
him in his arms, and noticed once again how heavy and inert his poor
form was--"courage, courage! They will never come for you again. You
are free forever now. Dispel these illusions. Be brave."
"Free," he repeated, "free!" and his wandering blue eyes sought
Bertie's once more, while in them there was again that wistful look
which so wrung his heart. "Free! yes, I am free!" and as he spoke he
released himself from Elphinston's grasp and flung himself upon his
knees before his wife's picture.
"My darling," he murmured, gazing up at it, "_ma mignonne_, we shall
never part more. I am free! free! free! And so happy! oh, so happy!"
and he clasped his hands together and bent over the low chair before
the picture. And once again he looked up and murmured, "So--so happy
now!"
When at last they ventured to speak to him, and, getting no answer, to
raise his head, they saw upon his face so sweet and placid a smile
that, remembering all, Bertie would not have wished to call him back
to the world in which he had suffered so much.