“Too much of this!” cried Louis angrily. “Lord Cardinal, you forget the presence of the King. Monsieur de Blenau—We, by our royal prerogative, do annul and make void the sentence you have just heard, merely commanding you to retire from this chateau of the Bastille, without holding communication with any persons attached to the Court, and to render yourself within the limits of our province of Bourbon, and there to wait our farther pleasure. The Council is over,” he continued, rising. “Monsieur le Cardinal de Richelieu, by sending the warrant for the Count’s release some time in the day to our Governor of the Bastille, you will merit our thanks.”
The officers cleared the way for the King—the huissiers of the chamber threw wide the doors—and Louis, with a firm and dignified step, proceeded slowly out of the hall, followed by Richelieu, who, thunderstruck and confounded, kept his eyes bent upon the ground, in the silence of deep astonishment. The rest of the Council, equally mute and surprised, accompanied the Cardinal with anxiety in every eye; while the officers of the Bastille and the Count de Blenau remained the sole occupants of the hall of audience.
CHAPTER II.
In which De Blenau gets out of the scrape.
THE silence that reigned in the audience-hall of the Bastille after the scene we have described, endured several minutes, during which each person who remained within its walls, commented mutely on the extraordinary events he had just witnessed. De Blenau’s feelings were of course mingled, of surprise at the King’s unusual conduct, and gratification at his own deliverance. The Governor’s thoughts were differently employed, looking forward to the fall of Richelieu, speculating in regard to his successor, and trying to determine who would be the best person to court in the changes that were likely to ensue. “Like master, like man,” says the adage; and the inferior officers of the prison, in compliance therewith, calculated upon the removal of the Governor as a consequence of the ruin of the Minister who had placed him there, and laid their own minor plans for securing their places.
De Blenau was the first to break silence. “Well, my friend,” said he, addressing the Governor, “I am to be your guest no longer, it seems; but be assured that I shall not forget my promises.”
“You are infinitely good, Monseigneur,” answered the other, bowing almost to the ground. “I hope you will believe that I have gone to the very extreme of what my duty permitted, to afford you all convenience.”
“I have no doubt of it,” replied the Count; “but let me ask what has become of my good friend, Philip, the woodman? He must not be forgotten.”
The knowledge of the severity he had exercised towards poor Philip, in the first heat of his anger, now called up a quick flush in the pale cheek of the Governor; and he determined to shelter himself from the resentment of his late prisoner, by telling him that the Woodman had been liberated.
In those dangerous times, the acuteness of every one was sharpened by continual exercise; and De Blenau’s eye, fixing on the varying countenance of his companion, soon detected that there was something amiss, by the alteration which his question produced. “Monsieur le Gouverneur,” said he, “give me the truth. I promise you that every thing shall be forgotten, provided you have not seriously injured him; but I must know that the man is safe who has served me so faithfully.”