Richelieu: A Tale of France, v. 2/3

by G. P. R. James

At Ecouen, Pauline had dressed herself in the clothes of her maid Louise, and on alighting at the hotel de Senecy, was taken by the servants for the soubrette of Mademoiselle de Hauteford. All this was to her wish; and not a little delighted with the first success of her disguise, she affected the ton paysan, and treated the domestics with the same familiarity which they showed towards her.

An old and confidential servant of the Queen was the only male attendant who accompanied them to Paris, and he took especial care not to undeceive the others in regard to Mademoiselle de Beaumont’s rank, though he had more than once nearly betrayed the secret by smiling at the Lady’s maid airs which Pauline contrived to assume. This task, however, was not of long duration; for Pauline’s anxiety would not suffer her to remain inactive, and she accordingly pressed her companion to set out speedily for the Bastille, afraid that under any long delay her courage, which she felt to be failing every moment, might give way entirely, and that she might at length prove unequal to accomplish her undertaking.

Mademoiselle de Hauteford, whose acquaintance with the city qualified her to act as guide, readily agreed to proceed immediately on their expedition; and Pauline’s disguise as soubrette not permitting her to make use of a mask like her companion, she covered her head as far as she could with a large capuchin of brown tafetas, which, however, was all-insufficient to conceal her face. This being done, she followed the Lady of honour into the street, and in a moment found herself immersed in all the bustle and confusion of the capital.

Poor Pauline’s senses were almost bewildered by the crowd; but Mademoiselle de Hauteford, leaning on her arm, hurried her on as far as the Rue St. Antoine, where she stopped opposite to the Church of St. Gervais, or rather the narrow dirty street which leads towards it.

Here she directed Pauline straight on to the Bastille, and pointing out the church, told her that she would wait there for her return, offering up prayers for the success of her enterprise.

The magnificent peristyle of the Church of St. Gervais, which the celebrated De Brosse is said to have pronounced the most perfect of his works,—observing, like Solon on the Athenian Laws, that it was not, indeed, the best that could be formed, but the best that could be adapted to the old gothic building which he was directed to improve,—was then in the first gloss of its novelty, and amongst the many sombre smoky buildings that she had passed, offered to Pauline’s eye a bright and conspicuous landmark, which she felt sure she could not mistake. She took, however, another glance, and then hurried on towards the Bastille.

Totally ignorant of Paris and all that it contained; young, beautiful and timid; engaged in an undertaking full of danger and difficulty, and dressed in a manner to which she was unaccustomed; Pauline de Beaumont shrank from the glance of the numerous passengers that thronged the Rue St. Antoine; and every eye which, attracted by her loveliness, or by the frightened haste with which she proceeded, gazed on her with more than common attention, she fancied could see into her bosom, and read the secret she was so anxious to conceal.

At length, however, her eye rested on a group of heavy towers, presenting nothing but massy stone walls, pierced with loop-holes, and surmounted at various distances with embrasures, through the aperture of which the threatening mouths of some large cannon were occasionally visible. Sweeping round this gloomy building was a broad fosse filled with water, which prevented all approach but at one particular point, where a drawbridge, suspended by two immense chains, gave access to the outer court. But even here no small precaution was taken to guard against any who came in other than friendly guise; for the gate which terminated the bridge on the inner side, besides the security afforded by its ponderous doors and barricadoes, possessed two flanking-towers, the artillery of which commanded the whole course of the approach.

Pauline had often heard the Bastille described, and its horrors detailed, by the guests who occasionally visited her mother’s château in Languedoc; but, whatever idea she had formed of it, the frowning strength and gloomy horrors which the original presented, far outdid the picture her imagination had drawn; and so strong was the sensation of fear which it produced upon her mind, that she had nearly turned back and run away the moment she beheld it. An instant’s reflection, however, reawakened her courage.

“Claude de Blenau,” she thought, “immured within those walls! and do I hesitate when his life, perhaps, depends upon my exertion?” That thought was enough to recall all her resolution; and rapidly crossing the drawbridge, she passed what is called the grille. But here her farther progress was stayed by a massy door covered with plates and studs of iron, which offered none of those happy contrivances either of modern or ancient days, by which people within are called upon to communicate with people without. There was no horn, as in the days of chivalry, and if there had been, Pauline could not have blown it; but still worse, there was neither bell nor knocker; and the door, far from imitating the gates of Dis, in standing open night and day, seemed most determinately shut, although the comparison might have held in many other respects. With shaking knees and trembling hands Pauline tried for some moments to gain admission, but in vain. The gate resisted all her weak efforts, her voice was scarcely audible, and vexed, wearied, and terrified, and not knowing what to do, she burst into a flood of tears.