As soon as they had entered, the Woodman shut the door, and placing for Pauline’s use the only chair that the room contained, he began to pour forth a thousand excuses for the liberty he had taken with her cheek. “I hope you will consider, Mademoiselle, that there was no other way for me to act, in order to bring us out of the bad job we had fallen into. The Porter of the prison told me this morning that my daughter was coming to see me, and knowing very well I had no daughter, I guessed that it was some one on the Count de Blenau’s account; but little did I think that it was you, Mademoiselle—you that I saw in the wood of Mantes on the day he was wounded.”
Pauline was still too much agitated with all that had passed to make any reply, and sitting with her hands pressed over her eyes, her thoughts were all confusion, though one terrible remembrance still predominated, that she was there—in the very heart of the Bastille—far from all those on whom she was accustomed to rely—habited in a disguise foreign to her rank—acting an assumed character, and engaged in an enterprise of life and death.
All this was present to her, not so much as a thought, but as a feeling; and for a moment or two it deprived her not only of utterance, but of reflection. As her mind grew more calm, however, the great object for which she came began again to recover the ascendency; and she gradually regained sufficient command over her ideas to comprehend the nature of the excuses which Philip was still offering for his presumption, as he termed it.
“You did perfectly right,” replied Pauline; “and, having extricated us from a dangerous predicament, merit my sincere thanks. But now,” she continued, “without loss of time I must see the Count de Blenau.”
“See the Count de Blenau!” exclaimed Philip in astonishment. “Impossible, Mademoiselle! utterly impossible! I can deliver a letter or a message; but that is all I can do.”
“Why not?” demanded Pauline. “For pity’s sake, do not trifle with me. If you have free admission to his prison, why cannot you open the way to me?”
“Because, Mademoiselle, there is a sentinel at his door who would not allow you to pass,” replied Philip. “I have no wish to trifle with you, indeed; but what you ask is merely impossible.”
Pauline thought for a moment. “Cannot we bribe the sentinel?” she demanded. “Here is gold.”
“That is not to be done either,” answered Philip. “He is not allowed to speak to any one, or any one to speak to him. The first word, his fusil would be at my breast; and the second, he would fire: such are his orders, Mademoiselle, and be sure he would obey them.”
“Well then,” cried Pauline, “fly to the Count de Blenau, tell him that there is a lady here from the Queen, with a letter which she must not trust to any one else, and ask him what is to be done—but do not stay long, for I am afraid of remaining here by myself.”