“Why, this is the truth, Monsieur Philip,” replied the servant, “it seems that his Majesty the King, whom we have just left at Chantilly, is very angry about something,—Lord knows what! and our noble employer, not to say master, the Count de Chavigni, having once upon a time received some courtesy at your hands, is concerned for your safety, and has therefore deemed it necessary that you should be kept out of the way for a time.”
“Oh, if that be the case,” cried Philip, rubbing his hands with gladness, “though I know not why the King’s anger should fall on me, I will take myself out of the way directly.”
“No, no, Monsieur Philip, that won’t do exactly,” answered the servant. “You do not know how fond my master is of you; and so concerned is he for your safety, that he must be always sure of it, and therefore has given us command to let you stay in the Bastille for a few days.”
At that one word Bastille, Philip’s imagination set to work, and instantly conjured up the image of a huge tower of red copper, somewhat mouldy, standing on the top of a high mountain, and guarded by seven huge giants with but one eye apiece, and the like number of fiery dragons with more teeth and claws than would have served a dozen. If it was not exactly this, it was something very like it; for Philip, whose travels had never extended a league beyond the wood of Mantes, knew as much about the Bastille as Saint Augustin did of Heaven,—so both drew from their own fancy for want of better materials.
However, the purse which Chavigni’s attendants gave him in behalf of their master, for they dared not withhold his bounty, however much they might be inclined, greatly allayed the fears of the Woodman.
There is something wonderfully consolatory in the chink of gold at all times; but in the present instance, Philip drew from it the comfortable conclusion, that they could not mean him any great harm when they sent him money. “I know not what to think,” cried he.
“Why, think it is exactly as I tell you,” replied the servant, “and that the Count means you well. But after you have thought as much as you like, get ready to come with us, for we have no time to spare.”
This was the worst part of the whole business. Philip had now to take leave of his good dame Joan, which, like a well-arranged sermon, consisted of three distinct parts; he had first to wake her, then to make her comprehend, and then to endure her lamentation.
The first two were tasks of some difficulty, for Joan slept tolerably well—that is to say, you might have fired a cannon at her ear without making her hear—and when she was awake, her understanding did not become particularly pellucid for at least an hour after. This on ordinary occasions—but on the present Philip laboured hard to make her mind take in that he was arrested and going to the Bastille. But finding that her senses were still somewhat obdurate, and that she did nothing but rub her eyes, and stretch and yawn in his face, he had recourse to the same means morally, which he would have used physically to cleave an oak; namely, he kept shouting to her, “Bastille! Bastille! Bastille!” reiterating the word upon her ear, just in the same manner that he would have plied the timber with his axe.
At length she comprehended it all. Her eye glanced from the inner room upon the unwonted guests who occupied the other chamber, and then to the dismayed countenance of her husband; and divining it suddenly, she threw her arms round the athletic form of the Woodman, bursting into a passion of tears, and declaring that he should not leave her.