“You have made sure of that in person, I suppose,” replied Philip, in his usual surly manner.
“Whether I have or not,” answered the Governor, “does but little signify. I ask where is your daughter? We must have no strangers wandering about the Bastille.”
“I know my child’s beauty as well as you do, Monsieur,” replied Philip, “and was too wise to leave her in my cell, where every one that chose would have liberty and time to affront her, while I was attending upon Monsieur le Comte here: so I made her come with me, and set her under the archway of the old tower to wait till I was done. Now, if Monsieur has done with me, I will go and conduct her to the outer gate, and never with my will shall she set her foot within these walls again.”
“I have no farther need of you to-night, Philip,” said De Blenau, as the Woodman stood at the door ready to depart; and then seeing that the Governor turned to follow him out, he added, “Monsieur le Gouverneur, will you sup with me this evening?”
Philip quitted the room, but the Governor was obliged to stay to reply. “With pleasure, Sir, with pleasure,” said he. “I will be back with you immediately, before my servant brings the plates; but I must first take the liberty of seeing this demoiselle out of the prison gates.” He then left De Blenau, and having bolted the door, followed the Woodman quickly down the steps. Philip, however, had gained so much upon him, that he had time to whisper to Pauline, whom he found waiting in the archway: “The Governor is coming, but do not be alarmed. Let him think that I bade you wait for me here till I had attended the Count.”
Pauline, however, could not help being alarmed. While the excitement of her enterprise had continued, it afforded a false sort of courage, which carried her through; but now that her object was gained, all her native timidity returned, and she thought of encountering the Governor again with fear and trembling. Nor had she much time to recall her spirits before he himself joined them.
“Well, my fair demoiselle,” he cried, “I think if I had known that you were waiting here all alone in the dark, I should have paid you a visit;” and he raised the lamp close to Pauline’s face, which was as pale as death. “Why, you look as terrified,” proceeded the Governor, “as if you had been committing murder. Well, I will light you out, and when you come to-morrow, you will not be so frightened. At what hour do you come, eh?”
“I desire that you would not come at all,” said Philip aloud, as he followed the Governor, who was escorting Pauline along with an air of gallantry and badinage which did not at all set off his thin demure features to advantage, especially in the unbecoming light of the lamp that flickered upon them but at intervals, tipping all the acute angles of his countenance with not the most agreeable hue. “I desire that you would not come at all: you have been here once too often already. Let your brother Charles come the next time.”
The Governor darted a glance at Philip, which certainly evinced that his face could take on, when it liked, an expression of hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness; and in a minute or two after, by some means, the lamp went out in his hands. “Here, Philip,” cried he, “take the lamp, and get a light.”
“Your pardon, Sir,” answered the sturdy Woodman; “not till I have seen my daughter beyond the gates.”