“And what inference do you draw from this order, monsieur?” I inquired, after a moment’s gloomy thought.
Maison-Rouge shrugged his shoulders.
“It is not for me to draw inferences,” he said. “I obey orders without questioning.”
“And how does he take his imprisonment?”
“He seems to be in good spirits,” and Maison-Rouge smiled. “In fact, I have never seen him otherwise, and he was here for over a year when he was younger. I use him as kindly as the regulations permit. He has his old room, which he seems to prefer, and I have allowed him to send to his hotel for some additional clothing and furniture. I can do nothing more, monsieur, even were I so inclined. There are many in the Bastille who are not so fortunate.”
There was nothing more to be said, and I left the place, the messenger, who was waiting outside the door, accompanying me to the gate. As I passed through it, I reflected that I might perhaps be able to catch a glimpse of Richelieu at his cell window, and I turned to the right along the lofty outer wall and the deep ditch which rendered approach to it more difficult. The great prison had an indescribably threatening and gloomy air even under the rays of the noonday sun, and my heart trembled within me at the thought of the scores of helpless men behind those massive walls; of the miserable wretches lying in the oubliettes, thrown there, perhaps, by a royal caprice which had forgotten the prisoner before it had forgotten its wrath, and for whom death was the only release. Truly, there are worse things than death, and it were better for Richelieu to lose his head than to go mad in one of those reeking torture chambers.
A narrow path ran along the top of the embankment, and I followed this until I reached the end of the outer wall. Within was the dreary Tower du Puits in which we had been confined, and my eyes sought out the window of Richelieu’s cell and of my own just above it. At this distance they seemed mere port-holes in the great wall, and owing to the darkness within, I found that I could not see the prisoner, even if he were standing at his window. But he might be able to recognize me, and I took my handkerchief from my pocket and waved it in the air. In a moment I was rejoiced to see an answering gleam of white between the bars of the window, and I knew that he had seen me. I waved again and yet again, and as I did so heard hurrying feet behind me, and a hand was laid roughly on my shoulder.
“You will accompany us, monsieur,” said a voice.
I turned sharply and saw three men in the uniform of the Bastille guards. Each carried a musket.
“What is it now?” I asked in amazement.