At about a hundred yards on the other side of the fosse, forming one corner of the Rue St. Antoine, on the face of which it seemed a wart, or imposthume, stood a little narrow house of two stories high, the front of which displayed an immense board covered with a curious and remarkable device. This represented no other than the form of an immense wild boar, with a napkin tucked under his chin, seated at a table, on which smoked various savoury dishes, of which the above ferocious gentleman appeared to be partaking with a very wild-boarish appetite. Underneath all was written, in characters of such a size that those who ran might read, Au Sanglier Gourmand, and then followed a farther inscription, which went to state that Jacques Chatpilleur, autrefois Vivandier de l’Armée de Perpignan, à present Aubergiste Traiteur, fed the hungry, and gave drink to those that thirsted, at all hours of the day and night.
Every one will allow that this man must have been blessed with a charitable disposition; and it so happened that, standing at his own door, with his heart opened by the benign influence of having cooked a dinner for the Count de Blenau, he beheld the ineffectual efforts of Pauline de Beaumont to gain admission into the Bastille.
The poor little man’s heart was really moved; and skipping across the drawbridge, he was at her side in a moment. “What seek you, charmante demoiselle?” demanded the aubergiste, making her a low bow; and then observing her tears, he added, “Ma pauvre fille, do not weep. Do you wish to get in here?”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Pauline; “but I cannot make them hear.”
“There are many who want to get out, who cannot make them hear either,” said the aubergiste: “but they shall hear me, at all events.” So saying, he drew forth his knife, with a flourish which made Pauline start back, and applied the handle with such force to the gate of the prison, that the whole place echoed with the blows. Immediately, a little wicket was opened, and the head of a surly-looking Porter presented itself at the aperture.
“Philip the Woodman! Philip the Woodman!” said he, as soon as he heard Pauline’s inquiries. “Who is he, I wonder? We have nothing to do with woodmen here. Oh, I remember the man. And we are to break through all rules and regulations for him, I suppose? But I can tell Monsieur Chavigni, or whoever gave the order, that I shall not turn the key for any one except at proper hours; so you cannot see him now, young woman—you cannot see him now.”
“And is not this a proper hour?” asked Pauline. “I thought mid-day was the best time I could come.”
“No!” answered the Porter, “I tell you no, my pretty demoiselle; this is the dinner-hour, so you must come again.”
“When can I come then, Sir?” demanded Pauline, “for I have journeyed a long way to see him.”
“Why, then you are in need of rest,” replied the other, “so you will be all the better for waiting till evening. Come about seven o’clock, and you shall see him.”