At first all was conducted in a whisper, but the Norman soon broke forth, “Sachristie! I tell you she got in. I did not catch her till she was coming out.”
“Monseigneur will be precious angry with us both,” answered the other. “How I missed you, I cannot imagine; I only went to call upon la petite Jeanette, and did not stay five minutes.”
“And I just stepped into the Sanglier Gourmand,” rejoined our Norman, “which is opposite, you know. There I thought I could see all that went on. But that maraud, Jacques Chatpilleur, was always at his door about something; so finding that I could not get my second bottle of wine, I went down to the cave for it myself; and she must have passed while I was below.”
“How did you find out, then, that she had got into the Bastille?” demanded the other.
The Norman’s reply was delivered in so low a tone that Pauline could only distinguish the words—“Heard a scream—saw her running past like mad—threw the cloak over her, and brought her here.”
“Perhaps she was not in, after all,” rejoined the other; “but at all events, we must tell Monseigneur so. You swear you caught her just as she was going in, and I’ll vow that I was there and saw you.”
A new consultation seemed to take place; but the speakers proceeded so rapidly, that Pauline could not comprehend upon what it turned exactly, although she was herself evidently the subject of discussion. “Oh, she will not tell, for her own sake,” said one of the voices. “She would be banished, to a certainty, if it was known that she got in; and as to the folks at the Bastille, be sure that they will hold their tongues.”
Something was now said about a letter, and the voice of the Norman replied, “Monseigneur does not suppose that she had a letter. Oh, no! trust me, she had none. It was word of mouth work, be you sure. They were too cunning to send a letter which might be stopped upon her. No, no, they know something more than that.”
“Well, then, the sooner we take her there, the better,” rejoined the other; “the carriage is below, but you must blind her eyes, for she may know the liveries.”
“Ah! your cursed livery betrayed us once before,” answered the Norman. “Holla! la haut! mon Ange, give me a kerchief; I will tie her eyes with that, for the cloak almost smothers her, poor little soul!”