“Let us get a carriage and go quickly, Roland,” she said in a faint voice.
The slow horse clanked dully along the interminable Rue du Temple, till at last Valentine and Roland found themselves standing before the columned entrance to the Palace of the Temple, once the habitation of the Comte d’Artois and, before him, of other princes of the blood, such as Conti of amorous memory. And soon, formalities over, they were walking, with a soldier as guide, across the great courtyard with its encircling row of leafless trees, towards the low façade. Except that this was day, and not night, they saw just what the Royal Family had seen when they were brought there captives on the 13th of August, 1792, for the palace itself had not changed its external aspect since, and the prison itself, the great Tower, stood at some distance behind. Following their guide they went through the building, emerging finally on the flight of steps which led down from what had been the great salon to the palace garden, and saw then, at the end of the deserted pleasances, the great wall built round the Tower to isolate the royal captives, and over its bleak masonry the upper storeys and the pointed roof of the massive donjon of the Temple which was their goal.
Valentine had heard of this wall of Palloy’s at the time of its construction. It had served its purpose only too well then; it looked—God help her!—as if it would serve it well now. Yet M. de Brencourt had escaped—but that was by bribery, and he had not been in solitary confinement. . . . Now they were at the guardhouse in the wall, were passed civilly and quietly through, and found themselves facing the fortress itself, grey, massive, foursquare, with its small satellite round tower at each angle. Every window in the main building, except those at the very top, was blinded by a sloping board-work, a tabatière. And round it the encircling wall, supported on many buttresses, formed a complete square of desolation. In this were listlessly promenading a few prisoners.
“That is the entrance, Madame,” said their guide, pointing to the left-hand of the two smaller towers on that side. “The stairway runs up that tourelle; they will take you up from the greffe there. I see old Bernard awaiting you, in fact.”
And indeed, on the small semi-circular perron at the foot of the little tower was already standing an old gaoler with a bunch of keys.
“Madame de Trélan?” said this old man when they got there. “We were expecting you. If you will show me the pass there is no need to go into the greffe. Thank you, Monsieur . . . Madame will be obliged to mount a good many steps, since M. de Trélan, as she probably knows, is in solitary confinement, and therefore at the top of the Tower. I will go first; there are wickets to unfasten.”
The winding stairway of the turret was too narrow for Roland to give the Duchesse his arm. Light and gloom alternated with each other as they passed the slit-like windows in the six-foot masonry. And every step they mounted seemed to drive the blood further from Valentine’s heart. How could Gaston ever be rescued, even by guile, from a place like this? And she, who had been twice in prison herself, and thought she knew all its bitterness, now found that she was tasting a cup incomparably sharper.
She was so pale when they got to the top that Roland put his arm about her for a moment.
“Trying, the ascent, Madame,” observed the melancholy gaoler. “One hundred and twenty-two steps.”
A couple of sentries with fixed bayonets stood before the thick, nail-studded door. The “Marquis de Kersaint” was well guarded indeed.