An ecu courant was worth, in that day, about three francs, and a louis d’or somewhere about four-and-twenty (more or less, according to the depreciation), so that eight ecus, or crowns, went to the louis; and, consequently, the sum of one thousand crowns amounted very nearly to one hundred and twenty-five golden louis, which was a very pretty reward for a rogue to receive for being a rascal in a good cause: nevertheless, the Governor, even when he had safely clutched the promised fee, looked very wistfully at a little green silk bag, which De Blenau reserved in his left hand, and which he calculated must contain about the same sum, or more.
The Count, however, held it firm; and having given directions to whom, and when, his baggage was to be delivered, he descended into the inner court, and cast his eyes round in search of his faithful friend Philip. But the Woodman had received at once his emancipation from the dungeon where we last left him, and the news that De Blenau was free; and though he lingered in the court to see the young Count depart, with something both of joy and pride in his feelings, yet there was a sort of timid delicacy in the peasant’s mind, which made him draw back from observation, amidst the crowd of prisoners that the court now contained, the moment that he perceived the Governor, with many a servile cringe, marshalling the late prisoner towards the gate of the Bastille; while those less fortunate persons, still destined to linger out their time within its walls, stood off with curious envying looks, to allow a passage for him now freed from their sad fellowship. De Blenau, however, was by no means forgetful of the Woodman, and not perceiving him amongst the rest, he inquired where he was, of the obsequious Governor, who instantly vociferated his name till the old arches echoed with the sound. “Philip! Philip the woodman! Philip Grissolles!” cried the Governor.
“Does he know that he is free altogether to return home?” demanded De Blenau, seeing him approach.
“No, I believe not,” replied the Governor. “I had the honour of waiting first upon your Lordship.”
Philip now came near, and De Blenau had the gratification of announcing to him, unforestalled, that the storm had blown over, and that he might now return to his cottage in peace. He also told him of the appointment with which Chavigni proposed to compensate his imprisonment—an office so elevated, that the gayest day-dreams of Philip’s ambition had never soared to half its height. But the joy of returning to the bosom of his family, to the calm shelter of his native forest, and the even tenor of his daily toil, swallowed up all his feelings—A throne would not have made him happier; and the tears of delight streaming down his rough cheek, brought a glistening drop too into De Blenau’s eye. Noble and aristocratic as he was, De Blenau felt that there was an aristocracy above all—the nobility of virtue; and he did not disdain to grasp the broad hand of the honest Woodman. “Fare you well, Philip,” he said. “Fare you well, till we meet again. I shall not easily forget you.”
The Woodman felt something more weighty in his palm than the hand of De Blenau, and looked at the heavy green purse which remained in it with a hesitating glance. But the Count raised his finger to his lip with a smile. “Not a word,” said he, “not a word, as you value my friendship.” And turning round, he followed the Governor through the various passages to the outer court, where stood Chavigni’s horse caparisoned for his journey. De Blenau sprang into the saddle with the lightness of recovered freedom. The heavy gate was thrown open, the drawbridge fell, and, striking the sides of his horse with his armed heel, the newly emancipated prisoner bounded over the clattering boards of the pontlevé, and with a lightened heart took the road to St. Germain.
His journey was soon made, and, as he approached the place of his destination, all the well-known objects round about seemed as if there shone upon them now a brighter and more beautifying sun than when he last beheld them. At his hotel all was gladness and delight, and crowding round their loved Lord, with smiles of welcome, his attendants could scarcely be made to comprehend that he was again about to quit St. Germain. De Blenau’s commands, however, immediately to prepare for a long journey, recalled them to their duty; and eager to accompany him wherever he went, their arrangements were soon completed, and the Majordomo announced that all were ready.
Not so the Count himself, who, notwithstanding the King’s command, could not resolve to quit St. Germain’s without visiting the Palace. Sending forward, therefore, his train to the entrance of the forest, he proceeded on foot to the gate of the Park, and crossing the terrace, entered the chateau by the small door in the western quadrangle.
Perhaps De Blenau was not without a hope that Pauline might have returned thither from Paris; and at first, meeting none of the royal servants, he walked from empty chamber to chamber, with a degree of undefined expectation that in each he should find the object of his wishes: but of course his search was in vain, and descending to the lower part of the building, he proceeded to the Porter’s chamber, who, having received no news to the contrary, informed him that the whole Court were still at Chantilly.
I know not why it is, but somehow the heart, by long association with particular objects, forms as it were a friendship even with things inanimate, when they have been the silent witnesses of our hopes or our happiness; they form a link between us and past enjoyment, a sort of landmark for memory to guide us back to happy recollections; and to quit them, like every other sort of parting, has no small degree of pain. We are apt, too, to calculate all that may happen before we see them again, and the knowledge of the innumerable multitude of human miseries, from amongst which Fortune may choose, gives generally to such anticipations a gloomy hue. Looking back upon the towers of St. Germain, De Blenau felt as if he were parting from Pauline, and parting from her for a long and indefinite time; and his heart sickened in spite of all the gay dreams to which his liberation had at first given birth.