BONIFACE.
As we have seen, Dubois urged on the trial of D'Harmental, hoping that
his revelations would furnish him with weapons against those whom he
wished to attack, but D'Harmental took refuge in a total denial with
respect to others. As to what concerned himself personally, he confessed
everything, saying, that his attempt on the regent was the result of
private revenge, a revenge which had arisen from the injustice which had
been done him in depriving him of his regiment. As to the men who had
accompanied him, and who had lent him their aid in the execution of his
plans, he declared that they were poor devils of peasants, who did not
even know whom they were escorting. All this was not highly probable,
but there was no means of bringing anything beyond the answers of the
accused to bear on the matter; the consequence was, that to the infinite
annoyance of Dubois, the real criminals escaped his vengeance, under
cover of the eternal denials of the chevalier, who denied having seen
Monsieur or Madame de Maine more than once or twice in his life, or ever
having been trusted with any political mission by either of them.
They had arrested successively Laval, Pompadour, and Valef, and had
taken them to the Bastille, but they knew that they might rely upon the
chevalier; and, as the situation in which they found themselves had
been foreseen, and it had been agreed what each should say, they all
entirely denied any knowledge of the affair, confessing associations
with Monsieur and Madame de Maine, but saying that those associations
were confined to a respectful friendship. As to D'Harmental, they knew
him, they said, for a man of honor, who complained of a great injustice
which had been done to him. They were confronted, one after the other,
with the chevalier; but these interviews had no other result than that
of confirming each in his system of defense, and showing each that the
system was religiously adhered to by his companion.
Dubois was furious--he reopened the proofs for the affair of the
States-General, but that had been settled by the special parliament,
which had condemned the king of Spain's letters, and degraded the
legitimated princes from their rank; everyone regarded them as
sufficiently punished by this judgment, without raising a second
prosecution against them on the same grounds. Dubois had hoped, by the
revelations of D'Harmental, to entangle Monsieur and Madame de Maine in
a new trial, more serious than the first; for this time it was a
question of a direct attempt, if not on the life, at least on the
liberty of the regent; but the obstinacy of the chevalier destroyed all
his hopes. His anger had therefore turned solely on D'Harmental, and, as
we have said, he had ordered Leblanc and D'Argenson to expedite the
prosecution--an order which the two magistrates had obeyed with their
ordinary punctuality.
During this time the illness of Bathilde had progressed in a manner
which had brought the poor girl to death's door; but at last youth and
vigor had triumphed; to the excitement of delirium had succeeded a
complete and utter prostration; one would have said that the fever alone
had sustained her, and that, in departing, it had taken life along with
it.
Still every day brought improvement--slight, it is true, but decided--to
the eyes of the good people who surrounded the bed of sickness. Little
by little Bathilde began to recognize those who were about her, then she
had stretched out her hand to them, and then spoken to them. As yet, to
the astonishment of every one, they had remarked that Bathilde had not
mentioned the name of D'Harmental; this was a great relief to those who
watched her, for, as they had none but sad news to give her about him,
they preferred, as will easily be understood, that she should remain
silent on the subject; every one believed, and the doctor most of all,
that the young girl had completely forgotten the past, or, if she
remembered it, that she confounded the reality with the dreams of her
delirium. They were all wrong, even the doctor: this was what had
occurred:
One morning when they had thought Bathilde sleeping, and had left her
alone for a minute, Boniface, who, in spite of the severity of his
neighbor, still preserved a great fund of tenderness toward her, had, as
was his custom every morning since she had been ill, half opened the
door to ask news of her. The growling of Mirza aroused Bathilde, who
turned round and saw Boniface, and having before conjectured that she
might probably know from him that which she should ask in vain from the
others, namely, what had become of D'Harmental, she had, while quieting
Mirza, extended her pale and emaciated hand to Boniface. Boniface took
it between his own two great red hands, then, looking at the young girl,
and shaking his head:
"Yes, Mademoiselle Bathilde, yes," said he, "you were right; you are a
lady, and I am only a coarse peasant. You deserved a nobleman, and it
was impossible that you should love me."
"As you wished, true, Boniface, but I can love you in another manner."
"True, Mademoiselle Bathilde, very true; well, love me as you will, so
that you love me a little."
"I can love you as a brother."
"As a brother! You could love poor Boniface as a brother, and he might
love you as a sister; he might sometimes hold your hand as he holds it
now, and embrace you as he sometimes embraces Melie and Nais? Oh!
speak, Mademoiselle Bathilde, what must I do for that?"
"My friend--" said Bathilde.
"She has called me her friend," said Boniface, "she has called me her
friend--I, who have said such things about her. Listen, Mademoiselle
Bathilde: do not call me your friend, I am not worthy of the name. You
do not know what I have said--I said that you lived with an old man; but
I did not believe it, Mademoiselle Bathilde, on my honor I did not--it
was anger, it was rage. Mademoiselle Bathilde, call me beggar, rascal;
it will give me less pain than to hear you term me your friend."
"My friend," recommenced Bathilde, "if you have said all that, I pardon
you, for now not only can you make up for it, but also acquire eternal
claims upon my gratitude."
"And what shall I do? Speak! Let me see! Must I go through the fire?
Shall I jump out of the second-floor window? Shall I--What shall I do?
Tell me! Everything is alike."
"No, no, my friend, something much easier."
"Speak, Mademoiselle Bathilde, speak!"
"First it is necessary that you should swear to do it."
"I swear by Heaven!"
"Whatever they may say to hinder you?"
"Hinder me from doing what you ask?--never!"
"Whatever may be the grief that it may cause me?"
"No, that is a different thing; if it is to give you pain I would rather
be cut in half."
"But if I beg you, my friend, my brother," said Bathilde, in her most
persuasive voice.
"Oh, if you speak like that I shall cry like the Fountain of the
Innocents!"
And Boniface began to sob.
"You will tell me all then, my dear Boniface?"
"Everything."
"Well, tell me first--"
Bathilde stopped.
"What?"
"Can you not imagine, Boniface?"
"Yes, I think so; you want to know what has become of M. Raoul, do you
not?"
"Oh yes," cried Bathilde, "in Heaven's name, what has become of him?"
"Poor fellow!" murmured Boniface.
"Mon Dieu! is he dead?" exclaimed Bathilde, sitting up in the bed.
"No, happily not; but he is a prisoner."
"Where?"
"In the Bastille."
"I feared it," said Bathilde, sinking down in the bed; "in the Bastille!
oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!"
"Oh, now you are crying, Mademoiselle Bathilde."
"And I am here in this bed, chained, dying!" cried Bathilde.
"Oh, do not cry like that, mademoiselle; it is your poor Boniface who
begs you."
"No, I will be firm, I will have courage; see, Boniface, I weep no
longer; but you understand that I must know everything from hour to
hour, so that when he dies I may die."
"You die, Mademoiselle Bathilde! oh, never, never!"
"You have promised, you have sworn it. Boniface, you will keep me
informed of all?"
"Oh, wretch that I am, what have I promised!"
"And, if it must be, at the moment--the terrible moment--you will aid
me, you will conduct me, will you not, Boniface? I must see him
again--once--once more--if it be on the scaffold."
"I will do all you desire, mademoiselle," said Boniface, falling on his
knees, and trying vainly to restrain his sobs.
"You promise me?"
"I swear."
"Silence! some one is coming--not a word of this, it is a secret between
us two. Rise, wipe your eyes, do as I do, and leave me."
And Bathilde began to laugh with a feverish nervousness that was
frightful to see. Luckily it was only Buvat, and Boniface profited by
his entrance to depart.
"Well, how are you?" asked the good man.
"Better, father--much better; I feel my strength returning; in a few
days I shall be able to rise; but you, father, why do you not go to the
office?"--Buvat sighed deeply.--"It was kind not to leave me when I was
ill, but now I am getting better, you must return to the library,
father."
"Yes, my child, yes," said Buvat, swallowing his sobs. "Yes, I am
going."
"Are you going without kissing me?"
"No, my child, on the contrary."
"Why, father, you are crying, and yet you see that I am better!"
"I cry!" said Buvat, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. "I, crying!
If I am crying, it is only joy. Yes, I am going, my child--to my
office--I am going."
And Buvat, after having embraced Bathilde, returned home, for he would
not tell his poor child that he had lost his place, and the young girl
was left alone.
Then she breathed more freely now that she was tranquil; Boniface, in
his quality of clerk to the procureur at Chatelet, was in the very place
to know everything, and Bathilde was sure that Boniface would tell her
everything. Indeed, from that time she knew all: that Raoul had been
interrogated, and that he had taken everything on himself; then the day
following she learned that he had been confronted with Laval, Valef, and
Pompadour, but that interview had produced nothing. Faithful to his
promise, Boniface every evening brought her the day's news, and every
evening Bathilde, at this recital, alarming as it was, felt inspired
with new resolution. A fortnight passed thus, at the end of which time
Bathilde began to get up and walk a little about the room, to the great
joy of Buvat, Nanette, and the whole Denis family.
One day Boniface, contrary to his usual habit, returned home from
Joullu's at three o'clock, and entered the room of the sufferer. The
poor boy was so pale and so cast down, that Bathilde understood that he
brought some terrible information, and giving a cry, she rose upright,
with her eyes fixed on him.
"All is finished, then?" asked Bathilde.
"Alas!" answered Boniface, "it is all through his own obstinacy. They
offered him pardon--do you understand, Mademoiselle Bathilde?--his
pardon if he would--and he would not speak a word."
"Then," cried Bathilde, "no more hope; he is condemned."
"This morning, Mademoiselle Bathilde, this morning."
"To death?"
Boniface bowed his head.
"And when is he to be executed?"
"To-morrow morning at eight o'clock."
"Very well," said Bathilde.
"But perhaps there is still hope," said Boniface.
"What?" asked Bathilde.
"If even now he would denounce his accomplices."
The young girl began to laugh, but so strangely that Boniface shuddered
from head to foot.
"Well," said Boniface, "who knows? I, if I was in his place, for
example, should not fail to do so; I should say, 'It was not I, on my
honor it was not I; it was such a one, and such another, and so on.'"
"Boniface, I must go out."
"You, Mademoiselle Bathilde!" cried Boniface, terrified. "You go out!
why, it would kill you."
"I say I must go out."
"But you cannot stand upright."
"You are wrong, Boniface, I am strong--see."
And Bathilde began to walk up and down the room with a firm step.
"Moreover," added Bathilde, "you will go and fetch a coach."
"But, Mademoiselle Bathilde--"
"Boniface," said the young girl, "you have promised to obey me; till
this minute you have kept your word; are you getting lax in your
devotion?"
"I, Mademoiselle Bathilde! I lax in my devotion to you? You ask for a
coach, I will fetch two."
"Go, my friend, my brother," said Bathilde.
"Oh! Mademoiselle Bathilde, with such words you could make me do what
you liked. In five minutes the coach will be here."
And Boniface ran out.
Bathilde had on a loose white robe; she tied it in with a girdle, threw
a cloak over her shoulders, and got ready. As she was advancing to the
door Madame Denis entered.
"Oh, my dear child, what in Heaven's name are you going to do?"
"Madame," said Bathilde, "it is necessary that I should go out."
"Go out! you are mad?"
"No, madame," said Bathilde, "I am in perfect possession of my senses,
but you would drive me mad by retaining me."
"But at least where are you going, my dear child?"
"Do you not know that he is condemned?"
"Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu! who told you that? I had asked every one to
keep it from you."
"Yes, and to-morrow you would have told me that he was dead, and I
should have answered, 'You have killed him, for I had a means of saving
him, perhaps.'"
"You, you, my child! you have a means of saving him?"
"I said, perhaps; let me try the means, it is the only one remaining."
"Go, my child," said Madame Denis, struck by the inspired tone of
Bathilde's voice, "go, and may God guide you!"
Bathilde went out, descended the staircase with a slow but firm step,
crossed the street, ascended the four stories without resting, opened
the door of her room, which she had not entered since the day of the
catastrophe. At the noise which she made, Nanette came out of the inner
room, and gave a cry at seeing her young mistress.
"Well," asked Bathilde, in a grave tone, "what is it, my good Nanette?"
"Oh, mon Dieu!" cried the poor woman, trembling, "is that really you, or
is it your shadow?"
"It is I, Nanette; I am not yet dead."
"And why have you left the Denis's house? Have they said anything to
wound you?"
"No, Nanette, but I have something to do which is
necessary--indispensable."
"You, go out in your present state! You will kill yourself. M. Buvat! M.
Buvat! here is our young lady going out; come and tell her that it must
not be."
Bathilde turned toward Buvat, with the intention of employing her
ascendency over him, if he endeavored to stop her, but she saw him with
so sorrowful a face that she did not doubt that he knew the fatal news.
On his part, Buvat burst into tears on seeing her.
"My father," said Bathilde, "what has been done to-day has been the work
of men, what remains is in the hands of God, and he will have pity on
us."
"Oh!" cried Buvat, sinking into a chair, "it is I who have killed him!
it is I who have killed him!"
Bathilde went up to him solemnly and kissed him.
"But what are you going to do, my child?"
"My duty," answered Bathilde.
She opened a little cupboard in the prie-Dieu, took out a black
pocket-book, opened it, and drew out a letter.
"You are right, you are right, my child, I had forgotten that letter."
"I remembered it," answered Bathilde, kissing the letter, and placing it
next her heart, "for it was the sole inheritance my mother left me."
At that moment they heard the noise of a coach at the door.
"Adieu, father! adieu, Nanette! Pray for my success."
And Bathilde went away, with a solemn gravity which made her, in the
eyes of those who watched her, almost a saint.
At the door she found Boniface waiting with a coach.
"Shall I go with you, Mademoiselle Bathilde?" asked he.
"No, no, my friend," said Bathilde, "not now; to-morrow, perhaps."
She entered the coach.
"Where to?" asked the coachman.
"To the Arsenal."