‘But how can I get to do it?’ asked Blacquart.
‘Come with me,’ said Glazer.
And tumbling from his post, purposely, on the head of Maître Picard, who had returned to his position, he shot amongst the crowd, before the bourgeois could contrive to aim another blow at him, and, followed by Jean, got to the other side of the fountain. Here he claimed acquaintance with one of the artificers, who, it appeared, had been under his care at the Hôtel Dieu with an accident; and by his interest Jean was furnished with a link, and directed what to do, being inducted into the group along a slight temporary bridge of boards.
In the interim before the grand piece was lighted, Jean arranged and rearranged his cloak and hat a hundred times; and when at last he applied the light to the quickmatch, and the horses began to blow out fire from their nostrils, apparently in the centre of the water, and the points of Neptune’s trident also went off in a brilliant discharge of sparks, Jean was in ecstasies. The people applauded; all of which he took to himself, and would even have bowed in return to them, had not the presence of the King restrained him. But he felt satisfied that, in the glare of the fire, he was plainly visible to all, and this for the time consoled him.
But his evil genius was about to triumph. A number of changes had taken place in the bouquet, when suddenly, and simultaneously from every point of the statues, a column of fire shot up high in the air, and fell again in a shower of flame upon the group, threatening to exterminate the Gascon in its descent. His first impulse was to retreat to the planks and get to the edge of the basin, but a formidable blazing wheel, forming the back-work of the entire piece, cut off his flight, so that he was driven back again. Thicker and thicker fell the flakes, as the tawdry dabs of lace which hung about his dress caught fire; and his thin, half-starved feather, which gained in height what it lost in substance, also took light. Philippe Glazer, who had foreseen all this, set up a loud huzza, in which those near him joined; the remainder fancied that the figure of the Gascon, as he danced amidst the glowing shower, was a part of the exhibition, and intended to represent one of the allegorical personages who always figured in the masques and tableaux of the period. But at last he could bear it no longer. His cloak was just bursting into a flame when, in the agony of his despair, he threw himself into the basin, amidst the renewed hilarity of the spectators, including Louis himself, who, with La Montespan, and even the pale pensive La Vallière, was more amused than if everything had gone on in its proper way.
The reservoir was not very deep, but the Gascon had lost all self-possession, and he floundered about like a water-god, to the great detriment of so much of his finery as yet remained, until he got near enough to the edge of the basin for Maître Picard to hook him out with his halberd, and drag him half-drowned and half-roasted to dry ground.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RUE DE L’HIRONDELLE
On the southern bank of the Seine, touching the water-boundary of the Quartier Latin, and running parallel with the river from the Place du Pont St. Michel, which is situated at the foot of the bridge from which it takes its name, there is a dark and noisome street, bordered by tall gloomy houses, and so narrow in its thoroughfare that the inhabitants on either side of the way can all but shake hands with each other across the footway—for carriages could not pass. It is called—for it exists in all its pristine squalor and wretchedness at the present day—the Rue de l’Hirondelle. The pure air can scarcely penetrate to its reeking precincts, the way is choked up with offal and things flung from the houses to decay in the streets. The houses are tenanted by the lowest orders, and the dirt of ages has been suffered to accumulate on the walls and passages: in fact, it bears some resemblance to the miserable portion of the ‘Rookery’ still left in London, with the exception, that this Rue de l’Hirondelle is narrower and darker. Gloomy at all times, at night the thinly scattered lamps scarcely illuminate its entrance; and he would be a bold man indeed who chose to pass along it alone. And in the seventeenth century, before the introduction of street-lights, when the poverty of its inhabitants would not allow them to place lanterns before their doors, it was always in total darkness, even when bright moonlight fell upon the quays and open places.
It was the evening of the funeral of M. d’Aubray, the father. The night was stormy, and the wind howled over the city as if bearing on its wings spirits wailing for the dead and crying for retribution. Few cared to be abroad: the few lamps had been extinguished after struggling against the blast and were not relighted: and one window only in the Rue de l’Hirondelle gave token that the houses were inhabited.
In a miserable room of one of the worst-conditioned houses—so ruinous in its appearance that large black beams crossed the street from its front to the opposite side of the narrow street, to prop it up from falling and crushing those who might be below—there were two persons seated at a small fire. In one of them any person who had once seen him could have recognised the Italian Exili, although his imprisonment had left traces of its privations upon his face. His features were more wan, his hair was grizzled, and his eyes had sunk yet deeper, glaring from the bottom of the orbits with riveting intensity. His companion was dressed in a fantastic costume of old black velvet, with a capuchin cowl which, when worn over his head, nearly concealed his face, and his head was now buried in it,—less, however, for privacy than to shield himself from the cold draughts of air that poured in through the broken, ill-fitted windows. On a rough table before him were pieces of money, of all degrees of value: and these he was counting, as he put them away in a box heavily clasped with iron.