During his absence, the wrath of the Governor turned upon Philip the woodman. “What is the meaning of this? Villain!” exclaimed he, “this is none of your daughter! Fouchard! La Heuterie!” he called aloud to some of his satellites—“quick! bring me a set of irons! we shall soon hear who this is, Monsieur Philip Grissoles!”
“You will never hear any thing from me more than you know already,” replied Philip; “so put what irons on me you like. But you had better beware, Sir Governor; those that meddle with pitch will stick their fingers. You do not know what you may bring upon your head.”
“Silence, fool!” cried the Governor, in a voice that made the archway ring; “you know not what you have brought upon your own head.—Fouchard! La Heuterie! I say, why are you so long? Oh, here you come at last. Now secure that fellow, and down with him to one of the black dungeons!—Porter, turn that young viper out,” he continued, pointing to Charles, who stood trembling and weeping by his father’s side; “Turn him out, I say!—we will have no more of these traitors than we have occasion for.”
At the word the dark dungeon, Philip’s courage had almost failed him, and it was not without an effort that he kept his sturdy limbs from betraying his emotion, while the gaolers began to place the irons on his wrists and ancles: but when he heard the order to drive forth his son, he made a strong effort and caught the boy in his arms: “God bless you, Charles! God bless you, my boy! and fear not for me,” he exclaimed, “while there is a Power above.”
It was a momentary solace to embrace his child, but the Porter soon tore the boy from his arms, and pushing him through the gate closed it after him, rejoicing that he should no more have to turn the key for any of the Woodman’s family. “Now,” said he, “now we shall have no more trouble; I hate to see all our good old rules and regulations broken through. I dare say if his Eminence the Cardinal—God protect him!—were to follow this Monsieur Chavigni’s advice, we should have every thing out of order; and all the good store of chains and irons here in the lodge would get rusty for want of use.”
“Peace, peace!” cried the Governor: “La Heuterie, take that fellow down, as I told you. He shall have the question to-morrow, and we shall see if he finds that so easy to bear. Away with him, quick!—A fool I was to be so deceived!—I suspected something when she stammered so about her father’s name.” So saying, he turned to hear the report of Letrames, who at that moment returned from his unsuccessful pursuit of Pauline.
In the mean while, the gaolers led Philip, who moved with difficulty in his heavy irons, across the first and second court, and opening a low door in the western tower displayed to his sight a flight of steps leading down to the lower dungeons. At this spot La Heuterie, who seemed superior in rank to his fellow-turnkey, lighted a torch that he had brought with him at his companion’s lantern, and descending to the bottom of the steps, held it up on high to let Philip see his way down. The Woodman shuddered as he gazed at the deep gloomy chasm which presented itself but half seen by the glare of the torch, the light of which glancing upon the wall in different places, showed its green damp and ropy slime, without offering any definite limit to the dark and fearful vacuity. But he had no time to make any particular remark, for the second gaoler, who stood at his side, rudely forced him on; and descending the slippy stone steps, he found himself in a large long vault, paved with round stones, and filled with heavy subterranean air, which at first made the torch burn dim, and took away the Woodman’s breath. As the light, however, spread slowly through the thick darkness, he could perceive three doors on either hand, which he conceived to give entrance to some of those under-ground dungeons, whose intrinsic horror, as well as the fearful uses to which they were often applied, had given a terrific fame to the name of the Bastille, and rendered it more dreaded than any other prison in France.
During this time they had paused a moment, moving the torch slowly about, as if afraid that it would be extinguished by the damp, but when the flame began to rise again, La Heuterie desired his companion to bring the prisoner to number six, and proceeding to the extremity of the vault, they opened the farthest door on the left, which led into a low damp cell, cold, narrow, and unfurnished, the very abode of horror and despair. Into this they pushed the unfortunate Woodman, following themselves, to see, as they said, if there was any straw.
“Have you brought some oil with you?” demanded La Heuterie, examining a rusty iron lamp that hung against the wall: “This is quite out.”
“No, indeed,” replied Fouchard, “and we cannot get any to-night: but he does not want it till day. It is time for him to go to sleep.”