“But the Porter, Monsieur de Blenau,” said the officer, anxiously,—“he may peach. All the other dependents on the prison are my own, placed by me, and would turn out were I to lose my office; but this porter was named by the Cardinal himself.—What is to be done with him?”
“Oh! fear not him,” answered De Blenau; “as his negligence was the cause of your not receiving the order in time to render it effectual, your silence will be a favour to him.”
“True! true!” cried the Governor, rubbing his hands with all the rapture of a man suddenly relieved from a mortal embarrassment: “True! true! I’ll go and bully him directly—I’ll threaten to inform the Cardinal, and Chavigni, and the whole Council; and then—when he begins to fancy that he feels the very rope round his neck—I’ll relent, and be charitable, and agree to conceal his mistake, and to swear that the lady never came.—How will Chavigni know? She will never confess it herself, and at that hour it was too dark for any one to watch her up to the gates.—Morbleu! that will do precisely.”
“I see little or no danger attending upon it,” said the prisoner; “and, at all events, it is a great deal better than conveying your neck into the noose, which you would certainly do by confessing to Richelieu the circumstances as they have occurred.”
“Well, well, we will risk it, at all events,” replied the Governor, who, though not quite free from apprehension respecting the result, had now regained his usual sweet complacency of manner. “But one thing, Monsieur de Blenau, I am sure you will promise me; namely, that this attempt shall never be repeated, even if occasion should occur: and for the rest—with regard to your never betraying me, and other promises which your words imply, I will trust to your honour.”
De Blenau readily agreed to what the Governor required, and repeated his promises never to disclose any thing that had occurred, and to reward his assistance with a thousand crowns, upon being liberated. Mindful of all who served him, he did not forget Philip the woodman; and deeply thankful for the escape of Pauline, was the more anxious to ascertain the fate of one who had so greatly contributed to the success of her enterprise.
“Speak not of him! speak not of him!” exclaimed the Governor, breaking forth into passion at De Blenau’s inquiries. “This same skilful plotter attends upon you no longer. You will suffer some inconvenience for your scheme; but it is your fault, not mine, and you must put up with it as best you may.”
“That I care not about,” replied De Blenau. “But I insist upon it that he be treated with no severity. Mark me, Monsieur le Gouverneur: if I find that he is ill used, Chavigni shall hear of the whole business. I will risk any thing sooner than see a man suffer from his kindness for me.”
“You paid him well, of course,” said the Governor, drawing up his lip, “and he must take his chance. However, do not alarm yourself for him: he shall be taken care of—only, with your good leave, Seigneur Comte, you and he do not meet again within the walls of the Bastille.—But in the name of Heaven! what clatter is this at the door?” he exclaimed, starting from his chair, at a most unusual noise which proceeded from the staircase.
The Governor, indeed, had good reason to be astonished; for never was there a more strange and inconsistent sound heard within the walls of a prison, than that which saluted their ears. First came the “Qui vive?” of the sentinel; to which a voice roared out, “Le Diable!” “Qui vive?” cried the sentinel again, in a still sharper key. The answer to this was nothing but a clatter, as the Governor had expressed it, such as we might suppose produced by the blowing up of a steam-kitchen: then followed the discharge of the sentinel’s firelock; and then sundry blows given and received upon some hard and sonorous substance, mingled with various oaths, execrations, and expletives then in use amongst the lower classes of his Christian Majesty’s lieges, making altogether a most deafening din.