IN EXITU ISRAEL.

IN EXITU ISRAEL

AN HISTORICAL NOVEL

by

S. BARING-GOULD, M.A.

Author of 'Curious Myths of the Middle Ages,' 'Origin and Development of Religious Belief,' 'The Silver Store,' &c., &c.

VOL. II

LONDON

MACMILLAN AND CO.

1870

OXFORD:

BY T. COMBE, M.A., E.B. GARDNER, E.P. HALL, AND H. LATHAM, M.A.,

PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY.

IN EXITU ISRAEL.

CHAPTER XXI.

When Gabrielle and Madeleine had retired for the night to the little bedroom of the latter, Madeleine seated herself on the bed, set her candle on the table, and holding Gabrielle by the wrists looked full in her face, and said abruptly: 'What brings you to Paris?'

The little peasantess was startled, and hesitated. Madeleine asked after a moment's delay,—'You have come to trade on your youth and beauty?'

Gabrielle's eyes opened wide. She did not understand.

'Yes,' said the Parisian flower-girl; 'God gives us comely countenances, graceful limbs, and ready wit. These are our wares, set up at auction to the highest bidder. So runs the world. God did not make it so; it is the creation of privilege. I have tried millinery-work—that did not suit me. I have tried wood-carving for churches—that did not pay. I have sought admission to many another trade—it was not open to women. So now my mother has sent me to Versailles to sell flowers to the nobles and gentry of the court, to be coaxed and petted and flirted with, to try to bewitch, ensnare, shackle one of them. By all means, if possible, to entangle some rich aristocrat. A glorious aim for woman! Hah! to estimate beauty at so much; a straight nose at so much, ruddy lips at so much, dimples at so much, laughing black eyes at so much, wit at so much, and virtue at nothing!'

She paused and shook Gabrielle's arms passionately. Then she went on: 'Bread is scarce, all provisions are dear. Why? because speculators buy up the corn,—keep it back to create a famine, and enrich themselves on the sufferings of the poor. Can poor folk afford to keep daughters at home to eat, eat, eat, and bring in nothing? First the interested create destitution, and then they take advantage of it to buy of the destitute what we would not sell except to save life. We are not poor here,—we in this house, because we live on the scraps flung us by the privileged classes. The corporal is salaried by the king to defend his majesty and his majesty's prisons against the French people, whose father he pretends to be; my mother makes caps and head-dresses for the grand ladies, the wives and mistresses of the officers; Klaus gets his living from the ecclesiastics, who buy his statues; and I sell flowers to the queen and the court, and keep my eyes open, looking out for a chance. Tell me now—why are you come here? On speculation?'

'I have come to Paris, because a lady whom I love is in the Bastille.'

'In the Bastille!' exclaimed Madeleine, dropping her hands.

'And I must do my best to obtain her release.'

The Parisian girl laughed.

'You are a foolish little peasantess,' she said; 'what can you do?'

'Did not Madame Legros obtain the release of Latude? Why, then, should I despair?'

'Madame Legros had a hard time of it. She worked for three years, she left no stone unturned, she was a woman of indomitable will.'

'And why should not I—with my faith?'

'Faith in what? in the righteousness of your cause? More the reason that it should fail. Violence and injustice alone gain the day now.'

'Madeleine, I will see the king.'

'The king is nothing, he is in the hands of the queen.'

'Then I will see the queen.'

'The queen!' echoed Madeleine, with a shrug. 'If you are to prevail with her, you must interest her vanity, her ambition, her love of display, her passion for pleasure,—those are the only springs that will move her.'

'Madeleine, I am sure I could persuade her to obtain the release of Madame Berthier.'

'What Madame Berthier do you speak of?'

'The wife of the Intendant, Berthier de Sauvigny.'

'Take my advice and do not meddle. You will burn your fingers.'

'Madeleine!' exclaimed Gabrielle, 'I must, I must indeed do what I can. The poor lady's last cry was to me to save her. I know that I am nothing but a little peasant-girl, that I am ignorant of the ways of grand people at court, but I feel in my heart that I have been called to do something for her. Even if I cannot deliver her, I can, perhaps, obtain permission to see her and attend on her in her prison.'

'Why is she deprived of her liberty?'

'Because she is a little deranged. Understand me, she is not mad, but has been driven by ill usage into eccentricities. She is harmless, and oh! so good.'

'Sit down on the bed, and listen to me,' said Madeleine, 'and you shall hear exactly what your prospects are.' Gabrielle took her place beside the Parisian flower-girl, and took her hand between her palms.

'Are you listening?' asked Madeleine; 'well, be prepared for the worst. I am going to throw a bucket of cold and dirty water over your enthusiasm.'

'I am prepared,' answered Gabrielle, feebly.

'In the first place,' began Madeleine, 'know that the great people do nothing without requiring a return. What have you to give the queen? I say the queen; for if anything is to be done, it must be done through her.'

'Nothing to give her, but I may interest her.'

'You can only interest her through herself. Can you do that; can you gratify her pride and love of display?'

'No.'

'Then put aside the hope of doing anything in that quarter. Now, who influences the queen? The court; in particular the Count d'Artois. If you gain him, you gain the queen, you gain the king, and you have what you want.'

'Can I see and speak to him?'

'Certainly, nothing easier. Announce yourself as a pretty girl, and he will be with you at once.'

'And has he a tender heart?'

'Most tender,' answered Madeleine, with irony.

'He will listen to the grievance?'

'Most certainly.'

'And you think he really will be moved?'

'No doubt about it.'

There was something in Madeleine's manner which grated on the young Norman girl's feelings; she withdrew her hands from clasping that of the Parisian, and said reproachfully: 'You are mocking me.'

'No, I am not,' answered Madeleine, vehemently. 'Poor simple child! Do you not see what I mean? You are pretty, more than pretty, you are beautiful, and with all the freshness of the country about you. The amorous prince will be bewitched at once. He will grant you all you want, take your request to the queen, insist on her obtaining from the king a release for your imprisoned lady,—but, remember what I told you. No one at court does anything without expecting a return.'

She looked at Gabrielle, who shrank from her.

'Mind,' said the city flower-girl; 'I counsel nothing of the sort. I show you the only possible means of success which is open to you in that quarter. I know the court. The court has made us French poor. It eats the fruit of our labour, and it says, when asked any little favour, Give! but what shall we give? you have taken our means of subsistence and our liberties. And the court answers, you have sacrificed to us your lives and liberties, surrender also your honour.' The girl sprang from the bed, and whirling round the room, cried in a tone of mingled bitterness and banter: 'Did they in olden times pass their sons and their daughters through the fire to Moloch? Hah! Versailles, temple of Moloch, I salute you! Hah! royalty, Moloch of modern days, I prostrate myself before you. Sometimes I think I shall live to see that charnel-house swept out, and the great idol overthrown. The hope is too great, the prospect overwhelms me. Gabrielle! have you ever heard of a vampire? The vampire is a dead man, who leaves his grave to suck the blood of the living. Where there is a vampire, a blight falls on the neighbourhood; old and young waste away, their blood is drained off to nourish a corpse which it cannot vivify. If the coffin be examined, it is found to brim over with blood; the corpse floats in blood, and is itself bloated with blood—blood that it has drained from young veins and hopeful hearts, withering hopes and destroying youth. Gabrielle! monarchy is the vampire. It is a dead system of the past, to which nothing can restore life. In olden times it was a living, thinking, acting power; now it is a carcase, but not a harmless one. It drinks blood to this day—the blood of the poor. It feeds worms, too, the court sycophants.'

The girl paced up and down the room as she spoke; then stopped, burst into a laugh, and said: 'And what am I but a courtier of those bloodsuckers? What is my highest ambition but to draw off a little of the blood they drink, that I may riot in it myself? God have mercy on poor France! men cannot afford to be honest or women to be modest, when their honest means of subsistence is snatched from them by harpies to be flung broadcast among the profligate.'

Then, reseating herself, and drawing her hand across her brow, she said, sadly: 'Why cannot I live on the work of my hands? Because prejudice and law combine to shut me out from trades in which I could honestly earn my bread. And yet I have wished to live quietly and toil for my living; but the times are against me, because society is against me. Alas, Gabrielle! what do you think is the proudest hope of a Parisian girl? Why, to become a Du Barry or a Pompadour. A man strives and denies himself to become a great judge, or a great artist, or a great philosopher, but a girl's ambition is to be mistress to a prince, a duke, or a count. It is not our fault, it is the fault of a rotten society which overwhelms some men with wealth and reduces others to beggary, and says to those who are down, your only hope of rising is by vice, all honourable avenues are shut.'

Madeleine put her arm round the little peasant-girl, and added in a soft tone, 'Do not misunderstand me, my little simpleton. I am not so low as you seem to think—I have not fallen over the precipice, but my mother and the necessities of the time are forcing me nearer and nearer to it every day, and my heart recoils with fear and loathing.' She began to cry. 'Dear Gabrielle,' she continued; 'I think that perhaps with a new order of things we might look up to Heaven for help, instead of groping for crusts of bread among the ashes of hell. I do not know, but I think it might be so. Oh that a Revolution might come before the edge of the precipice is reached, and I am lost!'

The poor Normande did not know how to comfort her. She thought of her father, and how ready he had been to expose her to danger, forced to it by his great need, by the slave-driver, Famine, and she asked herself what had created that famine, and the answer came, the Ancien Régime. She remained silent, and Madeleine, after a paroxysm of tears, recovered herself, and then returned to the subject on which she had questioned Gabrielle.

'I only showed you how hopeless it was for you to attempt anything like intercession on behalf of Madame Berthier at court. I do not advise you to take the only course open to you that promises success. Indeed, I warn you from it. But I will help you, if you like, to speak to the queen. It can be easily effected, as I am her flower-girl; only be not sanguine, I am convinced of the fruitlessness of the attempt.'

'I must make the attempt. I must, indeed.'

'Very well, then you shall.'

'Thank you, Madeleine, thank you very much.'

'Poor little friend, I will do for you what I can, but that is not much. Now let us to bed.'

CHAPTER XXII.

On the 4th of May, the opening of the States-General was inaugurated by a solemn procession and service at Versailles. The king, the queen, the whole court and the deputies of the three orders assembled in the church of Notre Dame to hear chanted the 'Veni Creator.' The hymn ended, the procession formed in the church, and passed out at the great door, crossed the market-place and the Rue de la Pompe, traversed the Place d'Armes, entered the Avenue de Sceaux, which did not, as now, extend in its full breadth to the Place, but was blocked in the middle by buildings; thence into the Rue de Satory, and so to the Cathedral of S. Louis. The French and Swiss guards lined the way, the walls of the houses were hung with tapestries and costly damasks, and the whole length of the streets along which the court and deputies were to walk was laid down with crimson carpets. The balconies were hung with garlands, banners were suspended from the windows, and triumphal arches spanned the road. At intervals, bands of music were placed, and everywhere were grouped orange-trees and exotics from the Versailles palace gardens. Crowds filled every vantage-point; windows, galleries, roofs, presented visions of beaming faces, and as far as the eye could see up the streets appeared heads. The Place d'Armes was densely thronged, and the people were allowed to enter within the rails enclosing the Court of the Ministers, and to cling to every bar, and cluster in ranks on every step of the palace front.

The first in the procession were the five hundred and fifty deputies of the Third Estate in black suits, white falling cravats, and black silk cloaks.

As the head of this sable line appeared, a female voice exclaimed: 'Ah, mon Dieu! there is surely a funeral!'

The speaker was Madame Deschwanden, whom the interest of the day had attracted, along with Madeleine, to Versailles.

'A funeral, ah a funeral!' was echoed by several on all sides; then Madeleine raising her voice answered, 'A funeral, yes. They are burying abuses,' which raised a laugh.

'Who can that be, that little pale man, with parboiled eyes? My faith! he is a cripple, he is deformed, they help him along, or he would not be able to walk. I wonder who he is?'

Madeleine did not know, none of those around knew. It was George Couthon, deputy for the Puy de Dôme.

'And there!'

A thunder of cheers rent the air as a large-built man, his huge head covered with a heap of shaggy hair, a massive forehead, dark well-arched brows and large luminous eyes, but with the lower portion of the face scarred with eruptions, fleshy and coarse, emerged from the church of Our Lady.

'Mirabeau! vive Mirabeau!' was roared by the crowd, caps were tossed into the air, handkerchiefs were waved from every window, and flower bunches fell at his feet, cast by fair hands from the balconies.

His firm-set lips curled with a smile, and with a bow he responded to these enthusiastic greetings.

Presently a running fire of applause arose as a slender pale-faced man with delicate features and an expression of ingenuous good faith appeared. This was Mounier of Grenoble. There passed a man with small face, retreating forehead and sharp eyes, a man with sallow complexion and thin lips, and vivacity and energy depicted in every lineament. No one noticed him on that day, he was an obscure deputy whom none knew—Maximilian Robespierre.

Paris was unrepresented, the elections there had been delayed.

After the Third Estate, separated from it by trumpeters and drummers, walked the nobility. The moment that they appeared, the cheering, which had been continuous on the passage of the Commons, ceased abruptly. The contrast they presented to the Tiers État was significant. Their dress was black, the vest of cloth of gold, and the coat frogged with gold lace. Their cloaks were of silk, their cravats of lace, and their hats of the shape worn in Henry IV's reign, adorned with plumes. Among the nobility, last, and lagging behind, walked the Duke of Orléans, burly, with bad features, wearing large rings in his ears. Instantly a shout arose, 'Vive le Duc d'Orléans!' which ran along the street and roared from the Place d'Armes. The duke laughed good-naturedly, lifted his feathered hat, bowed to the right and then to the left, and laid his hand on his heart.

After the nobles came the curés in their cassocks, short baptismal surplices, and long black cloaks, wearing on their heads the birretta.

A few shouts of greeting rose, not many, but some.

'Oh, Madeleine!' exclaimed Madame Deschwanden, 'who can that priest be? Look, do look at him!' She pointed to a slender abbé with a face of great beauty and refinement. The smooth broad brow was massive, the eyes large and soft, like those of an ox; the straight nose rather long, and the lips and chin indicative of extreme sensibility.

Some one in the crowd shouted, 'Long live the Abbé Grégoire, the friend of the Jew!' Madame Deschwanden looked round and saw an old man with the features of an Israelite raising his hat above his white head and waving his withered hand towards the priest who had attracted her attention. Percenez, who was close to her, said, 'That curé has in his face the making of a great saint and a great patriot. Long live the Abbé Grégoire!' Then suddenly he exclaimed, 'Ah! there is a friend of the people walking along a little way behind him. Vive le Curé Lindet!'

There were two hundred and fifty-nine curés, delegates to the Assembly. They were followed by the bishops, thirty-eight bishops and eleven archbishops, delegates like the curés and elected by the clergy, but separated from their inferiors by a choir in scarlet and lace, bearing silver cross and tall lighted candles, chanting the 'Exsurgat Deus,' which had been chosen by the master of the ceremonies as an oblique hit at the refractory clergy. The bishops wore violet cassocks, lace rochets, and violet-hooded capes. Their gold crosses glittered on their breasts. As they walked proudly along, not a voice was raised in acclamation. Immediately after the bishops marched the Swiss guard with their band, and then the King in his superb royal robes of state, surrounded by his brothers the Count of Provence and the Count of Artois, and the ministers. As he left the church, the cannons on the Place d'Armes were discharged. This was the signal for universal applause. It was heard running from street to street, rising in a billow of sound from the market-place, rattling down the street to the great amphitheatre before the Palace, where it rolled from side to side, and was passed on down the Rue de Satory, whence it was wafted faintly, and where it expired.

After the King and his group followed the Queen, with madame, the wife of the Count of Provence, the Countess of Artois, the princesses, and the ladies of the court, superbly dressed and covered with diamonds. The queen's hair was rolled into a mountain of curls about her temples, and bound round with a circlet of large diamonds and sapphires. Two long locks fell on either side of her beautiful throat and rested on her shoulders. The exquisite transparency of her complexion showed to advantage that day. The excitement had brought a little brilliant carnation to her cheeks. A chain of large pearls surrounded her neck and supported a pearl cross, which reposed on her bosom. Two crystal drops depended from her ears. Her brooch and stomacher blazed with precious stones. She passed along the street, between the lines of soldiers and the close-packed crowds, and not a voice was raised to salute her. She felt it, and a hard expression over-spread her countenance, she walked more erect, held her proud head up, and tossed it slightly, as the curls teased her.

'How beautiful the queen is!' was whispered.

'And she so wicked!' sighed Madame Deschwanden.

'No, mother,' answered Madeleine; 'she is not wicked, but foolish. She would not give one of those pearls to save a life; she would not deprive herself of a pleasure to lighten a heavy heart.'

'Well,' said madame; 'if you do not call that wicked, it is cousin to it.'

Some one shouted 'Vive le Duc d'Orléans!' and the cry was caught up by about a hundred voices. The queen hated the duke, who was the leader of the liberal party and a renegade from the traditions of his order. He was the people's idol, the abhorrence of the court. The queen would not tolerate his presence, and had refused to accept his homage. This was well known. It was known that his was the name of all others to gall her proud spirit, and the popular detestation of Marie Antoinette found vent in that shout, 'Vive le Duc d'Orléans!'

Instantly a pang of annoyance, a flash of anger obscured her eyes; she bent, as though suffering from a spasm. Madame de Lamballe, her pretty little friend, started forwards from her place in the rear and lent the queen her arm. Marie Antoinette rested her hand upon it for a moment, and then with a defiant air continued her walk.

The royal family was followed by the procession of ecclesiastics belonging to the cathedral, the church of Notre Dame and the King's chapel, vested in their surplices and capes; the choir and acolytes singing and censing around a canopy of crimson and gold, beneath which the Archbishop of Paris bore the Blessed Sacrament, in a monstrance blazing with rubies. On his right walked De Narbonne-Lara, Bishop of Évreux, acting as deacon, in dalmatic of cloth of gold; he was at Versailles as chaplain to the queen. On the left paced the dean of Versailles in tunicle to match. Monseigneur Juigné, the archbishop, was vested in cope of gold brocade, lined with crimson velvet; the deacons and subdeacons held the corners; he was bare headed.

On entering the church of S. Louis, the Blessed Sacrament was elevated to its shrine above the altar. The bands united to play a magnificent triumphal march, as the court took its place. A daïs of purple velvet sown with golden lilies had been prepared for the king and queen; the princes, princesses, the grand officers of the crown and the ladies of the palace grouped themselves around the throne.

The triumphal march ceased, and softly, unaccompanied by instruments, the great choir sang the 'O salutaris hostia' to a simple melody full of sweetness, whilst the fragrant smoke rose in clouds upon the altar-steps around the elevated pyx, which blazed through it like a red sun on a misty morning, and every knee was bowed in adoration.

The Marquis of Ferrières, in his Memoirs, thus recalls the feelings inspired at the moment:—'This simple strain, true and melodious, disengaged from the crash of instruments which choke expression; the regulated accord of voices swelling up to heaven, confirmed me in my belief that the simple is always beautiful, always grand, always sublime.... This religious ceremony cast a gleam over all the human pomp. Without thee, venerable Religion, it would only have been a display of vain pride; but thou dost purify and sanctify, ay, and aggrandise grandeur itself; kings, the mighty of earth, render homage, real or simulated, to the King of kings. These holy rites, these chants, these priests vested in their sacerdotal robes, these perfumes, the canopy, the sun gleaming with gold and jewels! I remembered the words of the prophet, "Daughters of Jerusalem, your King cometh, take your bridal garments, and go ye out to meet Him." Tears of joy flowed from my eyes. My God, my country, my fellow-citizens had become identified with myself.'

The sermon was preached by Monseigneur Lafarre, Bishop of Nancy. It overflowed with patriotic sentiments; but the prelate did more than express his enthusiastic devotion to the good of his country,—he reminded the court of its crimes, its pride, its lavish expenditure, and its exactions. He bade it remember that it was the crown and the court which had made luxury fashionable and had glorified dissolution of morals, and he urged on king, queen, and all whom the Almighty has placed in conspicuous positions, to consider their responsibility to Him who set them there, and he bade them be very sure, that if they slighted these responsibilities or used their place to exalt and sanction evil, a Nemesis awaited them which would be as speedy as terrible.

This sermon, so bold and patriotic, was not listened to without interruption. The queen was observed to turn white as chalk; the king's brothers, notorious for their immoralities, were differently affected; Monsieur glanced at his mistress, Madame Balby, and then covered his face; the Count d'Artois reddened, and beat with his foot upon the stage of the platform on which the throne was placed. The ladies around the queen fanned themselves and whispered audibly to each other. Some of the young nobles moved their seats, and rattled their swords on the pavement; others groaned and coughed, and the preacher's words were lost. He paused, looked towards the king's throne; Louis XVI was unmoved; he, an amiable, simple man, was untouched in conscience by the reproaches of the bishop; he quite agreed with him in his verdict, and appreciated his sentiments. But the queen had thrown all her weight into the conservative side, and conservatism then meant the retention of every abuse under which the country groaned, and the sanction of every vice which outraged morality and disorganized society. When Monseigneur Lafarre looked at her majesty, she met his eye with a threatening glance of indignation. The murmurs increased, and it was evident that the court and nobles were bent on preventing the preacher from continuing his discourse. The deputies of the third estate became excited, and agitation was observed among the deputies of the clergy. Thomas Lindet, responding to a sudden inspiration, sprang to his feet, looked across at the court, and cried:—'Magna est veritas et prevalebit.' A roar of applause rose from the benches on all sides of him and from behind. He sat down, and in perfect silence, without an attempt at disturbance, the Bishop of Nancy concluded his discourse.

It was apparent to every one from that moment that the battle was to be fought à l'outrance.

On the morrow, May 5th, the deputies assembled in the Hall des Menus-Plaisirs, situated in the Rue S. Martin, opening out of the Avenue of Paris.

Considerable changes have taken place in the town and château of Versailles since the period of our tale, and it will be necessary, in order that the events we shall have to record may be fully comprehended, to give a slight sketch of the disposition of the buildings as they then stood. Although Versailles was the place where the king and the court resided, it had not then the neat and cleanly air that it has at present. The streets, the avenues, the squares, even the courts and corridors of the palace were encumbered with booths, and stalls, and wooden caravans, which gave the appearance of a perpetual fair.

The town on the side of the Avenue of Paris was closed by a wooden barrier, placed a little in advance of the Rue de Noailles. The two first buildings arresting attention on entering the Avenue were, on the right, the hôtel erected by Madame du Barry, which was at that time occupied by Monsieur the King's brother, and which is at the present day turned into a cavalry barrack. On the left, immediately opposite, at the corner of the Rue S. Martin, was the Hôtel des Menus-Plaisirs of the king, now-a-days also a barrack. The principal entrance to the hôtel was from the Avenue of Paris, which admitted into a court of honour, at the extremity of which a grand flight of steps led into a vestibule that opened on the Hall of the Assembly. This hall was built on the side of the Rue des Chantiers, on higher ground, so that its floor was level with the first storey of the Menus-Plaisirs. It was entered also by a door opening on the street; and it was by this door that the deputies were admitted, whilst that from the Hôtel des Menus was reserved for the king. At the extremity of the hall, against the wall joining on to the hôtel, stood the throne, and beneath it the bureau of the president. The deputies were placed on benches. On either side of the hall, behind the pilasters supporting the roof, were galleries, to which the public had admission.

Into this hall, the king with a brilliant suite entered by the state door, at one o'clock in the afternoon. The deputies had been summoned at nine, but were only admitted as the herald summoned them, bailiwick by bailiwick. As each group entered, the master of the ceremonies pointed out to the clergy and the nobles and the commons their respective places. During this lengthy business the deputies remained crowded in a narrow dark corridor, which contributed greatly to increase the confusion.

The herald summoned the bailiwick of Viller-Cotterets; the deputy of the clergy was an unbeneficed curate, the delegate of the nobility was Monsieur the Duke of Orléans. The curé drew aside and bowed, to permit the prince to enter before him, but the latter refused. No sooner had the duke entered the hall than it rang with cheers. The deputies had all found their places at a quarter past twelve. Their benches were disposed in a semi-ellipse, whose diameter was the platform supporting the throne. The clergy sat on the right, near the throne, and the nobles on the left; the third estate occupied the rest of the seats.

When the king entered, the house rose and uncovered, and received him with thunders of applause. The queen was placed beside him on a lower step. The royal family surrounded the king. The ministers, the peers of the realm, and the princes were placed on an inferior stage of the platform, and the rest of the suite placed themselves as they could.

The king having taken his seat, the nobles covered themselves; whereupon, contrary to precedent, the commons also put on their hats. This caught the queen's eye; she made a sign to the king to attract his attention, and then whispered to him hastily. Instantly he bared his head, whereupon all in the hall did the same.

The king opened the States-General by an address, awkward, timid, cold, and colourless. He contented himself with assuring the delegates that the debt was enormous, and that to pay it off was their business.

This discourse was followed by one from Barentin, Keeper of the Seals, paler even than that of his royal master, in which he thanked Heaven for having accorded to France 'the monarch whom it is her happiness to possess.'

The minister Necker next spoke; he showed that the gulf of the deficit was still gaping, that it amounted to fifty-six millions. Of the constitution for France, which was so earnestly desired, he said not a word, and he concluded with declaring that the votes of the deputies were to be taken by order and not by heads.

This was the annihilation of the third estate, which, although as numerous as the two other orders put together, would thus be reduced to one against two.

Necker's speech lasted three hours.

The king rose at half-past four, and the estates were adjourned till the morrow.

CHAPTER XXIII.

'So! Gabrielle, what do you think?' asked Corporal Deschwanden, a couple of days after the riot at Réveillon's house.

The girl looked up wistfully at him. There was promise of good tidings in the tone of his voice.

'You have to thank my wife and Madeleine.'

'For what?' asked Madame Deschwanden, turning sharply round.

'For having been so provident as to exert themselves to preserve some of Réveillon's property.'

'The mother-of-pearl box!' exclaimed madame. 'Ah! I shall never forgive you.'

'Yes, you will, when you hear all,' said the corporal, positively.

'Well, what is it, what is it?' asked the lady, stamping impatiently. 'You Germans are so slow, I have to fish for an hour before I can catch a minnow. Take a Frenchman! he pours out everything into your lap at the first appeal, and throws himself at your feet into the bargain. But a German, or a German-Swiss, like you! My faith! I have to use a screw for ever so long, and, in the end, I only extract little bits of worthless cork. What is it? Will you tell me? Do you not see I am dying—perishing slowly from curiosity?'

'Curiosity, yes!' said the corporal. 'That is the bane of women. Wife! did you ever hear the story——'

'I'll have no stories. What is the news?'

'The news is for Gabrielle, not for you.'

'My faith! and are not Gabrielle and I one? Do not I enter passionately into her projects? Do I not see clearly that if she succeeds, or even if she fails, her self-devotion, her enthusiasm, which are charming, will make her fortune and mine? Does she not repose her confidence in me? Does she not make an oratory of my bosom, and find a sanctuary in my heart?'

'My good wife and my good Gabrielle, understand now,' said the corporal, in his broken French. 'I took the casket back to the Sieur Réveillon. He is in the Bastille. He fears the people, so he has procured for himself a lettre de cachet confining him within the walls of that fortress, which are quite strong enough to protect him from the mob. And he is comfortable there, being great friends with M. de Launay, the governor. Now that casket contained the jewels of Madame Réveillon.'

'Mon Dieu! you do not say so!' cried Madame Deschwanden, despairingly. 'The jewels! And they might have been mine.'

'They not only might, but would have brought you to the wheel, liebe Frau. Search was being made for them, as their value was very great. How should you like to be broken on the wheel for robbery?'

'But, if it were not for the pain, it would be interesting,' said madame.

'There is the pain, however, and that is terrible.'

'Yes; but the jewels—were they very beautiful?'

'I did not see them.'

'Oh, my faith! I wish I had looked at them. I have no doubt there were amethyst earrings. I had a pair once,—they were made of glass, you know, but they looked real, if you kept your head constantly on the move, and were very vivacious, so that no one should examine them closely. And they were stolen. The thief believed them to be real. They were stolen from me at a ball, and how it was done I never could guess. I never for a moment felt a hand near my face, or I would have slapped, and scratched, and kicked. Mon Dieu! I would have bitten.'

'And I am positive you would have scolded.'

'Scolded! believe me! I would have stabbed the man through and through with my sharp words, till he was little better than veau piqué. I would have amputated his head with my tongue. You do not know what I would have done!'

'I can guess.'

'Never! You do not know what I am capable of when I am roused. To you I am an angel of peace, to those who rouse me——'

'A cat.'

'Fie! And I your wife. Well,' she seated herself on the edge of his chair, and began to caress him. 'What have you got to tell us more?'

'The story would have been told long ago, if you had not interrupted me. The Sieur Réveillon was amazingly glad to recover his box. I told him that he was indebted to you.'

Madame Deschwanden caught the old soldier's face between her hands and kissed it.

'What did you say of me?' she asked vehemently. 'He would think, from the name, that I was a great Dutch frau.'

'I told him,' answered the corporal, 'that madame my wife, living nearly opposite his house, had watched anxiously from the window the destruction of his property——'

'Passionately desiring to render him assistance, but incapacitated by her sex. Did you tell him that?'

'N-n-ot exactly.'

'Why not?'

'Because I did not think it strictly true.'

'Fie! sacrifice your wife to your conscience. Oh, I wish Bruder Klaus had picked a pocket, or stolen a mother-of-pearl box!'

'I told him that you had preserved from destruction the casket which I had the honour of returning to him. He was profuse in his thanks, and he even offered me a turquoise ring for you.'

'Where is it?' asked madame, leaping from the chair; 'show it me instantly.'

'I refused it.'

'Refused it!' echoed the little woman. Then, throwing up her hands, she cried, 'Mon Dieu! what a thing it is to be married to the Ten Commandments!'

'The Sieur Réveillon has promised to call on you and thank you in person for having saved so valuable a portion of his property.'

'Then I shall get the ring, you shall see!'

'And in the meantime he proposes to render me a service.'

'What?'

'He asked me if there was anything he could do for me. I then mentioned to him that Gabrielle, who had been servant to Madame Berthier, now in the Bastille, was desirous of seeing her mistress again, and I requested him to use his influence with the governor to obtain her admission to the prisoner. He replied that leave could be obtained without difficulty, as the lady in question was not a political offender, but was confined on account of her derangement. It is the custom at the Bastille for those who are incarcerated to have their names changed, to facilitate their being forgotten. Thus Madame Berthier's name has been changed to Plomb. M. Réveillon went at once to the governor and procured the order for admission, and here it is.'

Gabrielle caught his hand and kissed it gratefully.

'I am ready to take you to the Bastille at once, if you are willing,' said the corporal. 'Admission is only granted within certain hours.'

Gabrielle, without another word, made ready. She took her basket with the cat in it, which Madeleine had amused herself with re-dying saffron, so that the cat was now brilliantly yellow, and taking the corporal's arm, issued with him into the street.

Madame Deschwanden was in raptures at the idea of hearing from the girl, on her return, an account of her visit. Her husband, on leaving the door, beat his forehead with his palm, and said:

'I was a fool to mention the turquoise ring to her. I have not heard the last of it yet. Whenever she has her tantrums, that ring will be brought up. Alas! would that I had more discretion, I should not have mentioned the ring. I was not in conscience bound to do so.'

Deschwanden led Gabrielle out of the street into the court before the entrance to the prison, occupied by the soldiers. She presented her order, which had been countersigned by a magistrate, and parted with the Swiss corporal at the second gate. She was told to cross a second court, on one side of which stood the governor's house, to the iron grating which closed the huge gate of the Bastille itself. At this entrance she was taken in charge by a turnkey, who conducted her through the long dark vault piercing the block of buildings to the great quadrangle in the centre of the fortress. This court was formerly much larger, but it had been cut in two by Sartines, lieutenant of police in the reign of Louis XV, and a range of offices and prisons, in a style destitute of architectural pretensions, was drawn across the court from the Tour de la Chapelle to the Tour de la Liberté. The front of this new building was decorated with a clock-face, fringed with sculptured chains, and supported by two figures chained together by the neck, the feet, and the waist. These two figures at the extremities of these ingenious garlands, after having moved round the dial, met in front of it, and formed a knot with their chains and limbs, and their parting, recommenced their automatonic movements. The artist, guided by the genius of the spot, had made one of these figures resemble a man in the bloom of his youth, and the other an aged, decrepit man, with blanched hair and bent back.

Around this large court rose six towers, each five storeys high. In the well-court were two more, the tops of which appeared above the roof of the new buildings. Between the towers of Liberty and la Bertaudière was the new chapel, and between the latter and the Tour de la Basinière was the gallery of archives. The ancient gate into the town, now walled up, stood on the opposite side of the quadrangle, between the Tour de la Chapelle, where was the oratory, used by the prisoners till the new chapel was built, and the Tour du Trésor. The guard-house adjoined the Tour de la Comté.

When the famous provost, Stephen Marcel, in 1377, fortified the old enclosure of Paris with new walls and double fosses, to protect it from the Free Companions, who were devastating France, he built a gate at the east side of the town, which was called the Bastillon Saint-Antoine. Under Charles VI, towers were added to this gate, and a fortress was erected on the spot, and called the Royal Castle of the Bastille. It played a great part in the intestine wars of the Bourguignons and Armagnacs, each party attaching equal importance to the possession of the fortress, as it was the key of the city.

The Bastille was not, like the Louvre, and most castles of the Middle Ages, a square, or a parallelogram of crenelated ramparts, with towers at intervals, capped with conical roofs and steeples, gay with blazoned weathercocks, and crested with elegant metal work, but it was an oblong irregular mass of thick double walls, containing rooms, halls, passages throughout their length, flanked by eight towers scarcely detaching themselves from the surface of the curtain, projecting slightly only from the bed of masonry connecting them, and not surpassing the walls in height,—a monument black and sinister, whose appearance and history were alike gloomy.

Under Louis XIV, the Bastille attained its exclusive destination as a State prison. Cardinal Richelieu did not suffer the rust to gather on the hinges of its gates; but it was not till the second period of the reign of the Great Monarch, that this royal château became an awful gulf swallowing up, year after year, multitudes of unfortunates, of every rank and station, persecuted and oppressed at the caprice of the monarch, his ministers, his confessors, and his favourites.

In feudal times, only prisoners of a high rank had been consigned to the Bastille; but, under the absolute monarchy of Louis XIV and Louis XVI, no citizen, however obscure he might be, could consider himself safe from these oubliettes incessantly gaping for victims. The action of the regular tribunals and of the municipal authorities was null in the presence of the Bastille, which was filled and emptied by order of the king, without trial. Lettres de cachet given, not only by his majesty and the ministers, but also by the lieutenant-general of police, consigned often innocent persons to an unlimited imprisonment, without a form of trial; so that often a prisoner was ignorant of the reason of his incarceration.

On the death of Louis XIV, thirty thousand unfortunates were found in the State prisons; their only crime in the majority of cases was a suspicion of heresy.

The lettres de cachet did not fall with as great profusion under Louis XV; but they were given and traded with in the most shameless manner. The minister La Vrillière, the lieutenants of police Sartines and Lenoir, placed them at the disposal of any great personage who had some personal resentment to satisfy, and they were often sold blank, at high prices, to be filled in by the purchaser with the name of a rival, or a relation, and Sartines would send blank orders as a New Year's gift to friends, or to nobles whose protection he solicited. Latude, of whom mention has already been made, was dragged for thirty-five years from prison to prison, to satisfy the resentment of a harlot. Leprevôt de Beaumont was in the Bastille now; he had been there already twenty-two years,—his crime, having undertaken to denounce before the parliament of Rouen that iniquitous speculation in grain, known popularly as the Compact of Famine, by which the corn-factors, men like Foulon, favoured by government, bought up all the corn in the land, and retailed it at their own price, so as to keep up the high rate. Louis XV, interested to the amount of ten millions in the success of this cruel scheme, shared the profit with the monopolists; Louis XVI, too honest to participate in this, but too feeble to prevent its continuance, did not repair the iniquities of his predecessors. The Compact of Famine still continued; by that means, Foulon had accumulated an enormous fortune.

The Bastille still received prisoners without trial. The annual emoluments of the governor amounted to sixty thousand livres. He had, however, but limited authority. Without an order signed by a magistrate, he could not permit a prisoner to shave himself, to hear Mass, to receive visits, to write letters, even to change his linen. Those incarcerated were usually entered under other names. Their relations were never informed of their captivity, nor of their death. If they died, they were buried at midnight, two turnkeys assisting as witnesses. The dying could not receive spiritual consolations, nor be attended by a physician, without a superior order.

Whilst we have been describing the Bastille, the turnkey has been conducting Gabrielle André across the court, then through a door in the new buildings to a corridor, opening on one side into the dismal yard at the back, called the Well Court, from a draw-well in the centre, surmounted by a roof, and decorated with a scutcheon bearing the lilies of France. On account of the height of the walls, the sun seldom lighted the soil of this quadrangle, there was not space for a draught, and consequently the walls were covered with mould and lichens. Fungi sprang up between the interstices of the stones, a forest of little toadstools encumbered the ground at the foot of the posts supporting the roof over the well, and one of these beams was adorned with a huge yellowish-white fungus, somewhat resembling, in shape and size, an elephant's ear, which the warders respected as a natural curiosity. On the opposite side of the corridor to that opening on this cheerless court, was a range of small doors, numbered with cyphers in white.

The jailer stopped at 35, unlocked the door, threw it open, and introduced Gabrielle; then said shortly,—'It is permitted you to be with Madame 35 for one hour;' then he shut and double-locked the door, and Gabrielle heard his retreating steps and the jingle of keys at his girdle become gradually less audible.

The cell into which she was ushered was about twenty feet long by fifteen broad. It was whitewashed, and floored with red-glazed tiles, over which a piece of carpet had been laid near the bed; a curtain suspended from a rod by brass rings screened the couch and the wash-hand stand, and shut off the portion of the room near the door from that lighted by the window. This lower part of the cell, which by the curtain was made into a square apartment, was furnished with a deal table, two chairs, a chest of drawers, and a small fireplace. The room would have been as cheerful as it was comfortable, but that the window was high up in the wall, and too small to admit sufficient air. It was also protected by heavy stanchions, which obscured the light.

At the table, with her back to the door and her face to the light, her feet on a footstool, sat Madame Berthier, dressed in black, busily engaged in constructing cats' cradles.

As Gabrielle entered, the unfortunate lady looked hastily round, and exclaimed:

'Wait! I must get these threads right first. In one moment! See! the cats' net.'

At the sound of her voice, Gabrielle felt a violent agitation in her basket; the lid was forced up, and the yellow puss thrust forth its head, then placed its fore-paws on the edge, looked all round, saw its mistress, uttered a faint miaw, leaped to the floor, and in another second was upon Madame Berthier's shoulder.

The cradle was dissolved instantly; with a scream, the lady sprang to her feet, caught her favourite in both hands, held it at arm's length above her head, and looking up to it, whirled round the cell, singing and laughing, and every now and then kissing the cat, and elevating it again. Her grey hair broke from its fastenings, fell down her back, and flew around, as she spun about the room.

'My Gabriel! my angel! Look me in the eyes and say you love me. Tell me, are you well? Yes; I am sure you are. How beautifully you are dressed in a new yellow coat! Let me see your teeth, are they sound? And your paws, as soft and silky as ever? My Gabriel!' She hugged the cat till it screeched with pain.

In one of her twirls, the unfortunate woman cast herself against Gabrielle, and then, for the first time, she recognized her.

'It is you! Gabrielle, my cat's wife! my friend! How come you here?'

She caught the girl passionately to her heart, and covered her face with kisses. Then, without notice, her laughter and joy were exchanged for tears and grief.

'The Beast!' she cried. 'He has shut you up also. Oh, the Beast, the Beast!' She ground her teeth, curled back her grey lips, her black eyes darted lightnings, and her nostrils became rigid.

'See this!' she continued, as she opened one of her drawers, and drew from it a brown velvet jacket, and flung it on the floor; 'this shall be the Beast.'

She threw herself upon it; with her teeth and nails she worried it as a dog worries a rabbit-skin; she danced on it and tore it, she bit upon it and made her teeth meet through it, she ripped the buttons off with her mouth and spat them about the floor, and then she kicked it round the room and stamped on it, and beat it with her fist, kneeling upon it, with her head forward, and her grey hairs falling over her face and concealing it.

The sight was horrible and revolting, and Gabrielle interfered.

'Madame! dearest mistress,' she said, drawing her hands away from the now tattered vestment, 'you are quite mistaken. Indeed you are wrong. M. Berthier has not sent me here; he does not know that I have come here. I have walked all the way to Paris to see you, and to bring you your cat.'

'My cat, where is he?' the poor woman exclaimed, starting to her knees, and looking round. Then, catching sight of the yellow creature, she held out her hands to him, and addressed endearing terms to him. Gabriel was frightened, and had mounted the table, where he stood with his tail erect, staring at his excited mistress.

The peasantess took the opportunity of a change in the direction of the thoughts of Madame Plomb to remove the garment she had misused, and to hide it.

After the stream of passionate expressions addressed to the cat had ceased to flow with the same copiousness and rapidity as at first, Gabrielle knelt before madame, and laid her hands on her lap.

'Madame,' she said, 'are you tired of being here?'

'Oh, Gabrielle,' answered Madame Berthier, 'it is dreadful. Always the same white, white walls. Always the same red, red floor. There is positively never a bit of colour fit to be seen to refresh one's eyes, except of a sunny evening, when a streak of fire comes slanting in at that window, and it falls on the wall, and paints a line of orange. I sit for hours, and wait for it. I say to myself—a few minutes longer, and then I shall see it. First it comes down on the floor, but the red tiles spoil it; then it begins to crawl, like a brilliant fiery caterpillar, up the chalky wall; I laugh and sing with delight till it reaches the roof, and then it is gone. If you sit just there, you can see a bit of blue sky, but I take no account of that; I wait for the streak of yellow flame. What were you saying to me just now?'

'You are very tired of being here, dear lady.'

'Weary of my life. I cannot bear it. I have no one to take the strings off my fingers; and then, I have been deprived of Gabriel. But I have had another pet.'

'What is it?'

'Ah! I do not see it often. Once a day. It is a toad; it lives in the Court of the Well. I walk there for an hour every noon. I might go into the big court, but I do not care for it; I like the grim well-yard where my pet is. He sits near a stone trough beside the draw-well. He has got a blistered brown back. He is such a droll fellow—but I will tell you something, Gabrielle, between ourselves, I think he is a devil.'

The girl, who was not without superstitious fears, shrank from Madame Berthier, aghast.

'Indeed I do,' continued the crazy lady; 'and I will tell you why. I have felt worse ever since I have known him. Once he looked me in the face with a knowing expression in his handsome eyes, and he extended his long arm and put his cold paw here,' she touched her heart. 'He spread his long fingers over it, and I have felt from that moment something dreadful there. I cannot tell you what, but you shall see some day, when I get out of this place.'

'Do you think you will be released soon?'

'I expect from day to day. Every morning I pack up my clothes, and when it comes to evening I have to unpack them again. But no! why do I hope to get out? Who will trouble himself about me? Will my father? Not he. He never did care for me. Will my husband—the Beast?'

With a scream she sprang into the middle of the room, and began to dance and stamp on the floor where she had mangled the jacket, looking for it with blazing, eager eyes all the while, in every direction.

'Dear madame, be composed!' said Gabrielle, 'I have something to speak to you about.'

The unfortunate lady subsided into her chair, and the girl resumed her place at her feet.

'I want your advice, madame, so much. I wish to do all I can to obtain your liberation. You have heard how Madame Legros wrought during three years, and how she succeeded in procuring the release of Latude.'

'Will you do the same for me?' asked Madame Plomb, her leaden face darkening and becoming purple, as the blood rushed into it.

'Dear mistress, I will do all that I am able to do; I will spare no trouble, no exertion. I am poor, but so was Madame Legros; I am a nobody, but so was she. If she was successful, why should not I be so too?'

'God bless you, dear heart!' said the poor woman, in a tender tone, the wild light deserting her eyes, and the nervous contraction of the mouth yielding to a natural softness. She extended her hands over the girl's head,—Gabrielle was still kneeling before her; and said in the same low tone, 'God bless you, dear child! And sweet Mother Mary assist you, and your patron Gabriel protect you.'

Then she asked abruptly in her usual tone, 'Well! what are you going to do?'

'Madame, I had formed the intention of seeking an interview with the queen, and imploring her to use her influence with the king, to obtain for you an order of release.'

'But I am mad.'

'No, no, dearest madame. I know you better. Ill usage has made you very unhappy; but if you were alone,—away from M. Berthier and your father, in some quiet place, and I were to attend on you, you would be happy and well again.'

Joy irradiated the leaden face. The poor woman laughed and clapped her hands.

'We shall be together in a cottage, with flowers before the door.'

'Surely, madame.'

'And away, far away from Paris and Bernay, where there are trees and mountains. Gabrielle, my father took me once when I was a little girl to a beautiful country where there were great mountains, and snow covered them in the midst of summer; and there were forests there, and people did not talk French. I ran away and hid among the rocks and trees. I was a little girl then, quite a little girl; but they could not find me. I was behind a mossy stone, and I saw them searching, and they never would have found me, unless I had laughed aloud. We will go there. I have not laughed for many years; we shall be able to hide away there, and they would never find us. Of that I am sure. I would not laugh and let them catch me. We shall go there.'

'Where was that?' asked Gabrielle, her mind recurring to the Deschwandens, father and son.

'I do not know. I remember, that is all.'

'Was it,' asked Gabrielle, hesitatingly, 'was it, do you think, the country of Bruder Klaus?'

'I do not know. We shall take Gabriel with us, shall we not?'

'Certainly.'

'And you will be with me always?'

'Yes, I will not leave you, dear, kind mistress, unless you send me away.'

'That I will never do.'

'When shall we start?'

'Oh, madame! you are not out of this hateful place yet.'

'No,' said the poor prisoner, her face returning to its ashen greyness, which, in the Bastille, shut out from the sun, had become more livid; 'no, and I have not said good-bye to the Beast yet.'

'Madame!'

'Ay. To the Beast! Oh for that good-bye!'

She threw up her hand, clenched her fist, and gnashed her teeth. At the same moment voices were heard in the corridor, and the key was turned in the lock.

Gabrielle rose to her feet, madame caught up the cat, fearing lest the returning jailer should refuse to leave it with her, when the door opening revealed the governor and M. Berthier.

CHAPTER XXIV.

The Réveillon riot had caused no anxiety at Versailles; but the Baron de Besenval and M. de Launay had seen in it the germs of a more extended and fiercer explosion, and they determined to have the Bastille placed in such a condition of security and defence, that it might resist a rising in Paris, having its destruction in view. The governor knew better than the court how deep-seated was the popular detestation of the State prison, and he foresaw that the first act of an aroused populace would be an assault on that monument of royal injustice.

At the request of the Baron, M. Berthier visited the Bastille to examine its condition, and ascertain what precautions were necessary. It was on the occasion of this visit that Berthier was shown into the cell of his unfortunate wife.

He had been descending the corridor with De Launay, when the governor, pointing to No. 35, had said, 'Here is the chamber of Madame Plomb,' whereupon the Intendant had requested to be admitted to see her.

We must say a few words about M. de Launay.

Son of an ancient governor of the Bastille, born within its walls, his young heart hardened by the habitual sight of misery and injustice, he was the man of all others a wise king would not have placed in the post he was destined to occupy.

He began life in a musketeer regiment, then he became officer in the guards, and afterwards captain of a cavalry regiment. But the Bastille was his dream, and he was resolved at all costs to become its governor. He had many motives for this: his father, who had held the post for twenty-two years, had left a handsome property, which had been divided between him and his brother, who was in the service of the Prince of Conti. De Launay hoped to quadruple his fortune at the same source whence his father had drawn it.

M. de Maurepas, after repeated solicitation, passed him on to the ministry, after having sounded him and discovered in him the necessary qualities. Then, using his influence along with that of the Prince of Conti, gained over by his brother, he succeeded in drawing his resignation from M. de Jumilhac, the governor at the time, on these conditions:—De Launay paid M. de Jumilhac a hundred thousand crowns, and married his own daughter to the son of the latter, and undertook to make her his heiress. He also promised his brother a pension of ten thousand livres, in consideration of his having obtained for him the protection of the Prince of Conti. This expensive bargain placed the new functionary under the hard necessity of recouping these enormous sums out of the prison and the prisoners.

One of the scandals of the period was the venality of responsible offices, even those in the Bastille. From that of the governor down to the office of turnkey, all were articles of traffic; De Launay sold the latter situation at an annual rent of nine hundred francs.

M. de Launay was installed in his government of the Bastille in October, 1776. He had promised the ministers and the lieutenant of police passive obedience to their orders, their fancies, and their caprices, and he kept religiously to his engagement. Never was there a more cringing, obsequious officer. But, as is always the case with such persons, they revenge themselves for the degradation their servility brings, by severity towards those subject to them. From the moment of his entry into office, the most severe and tyrannical despotism was enthroned in the Bastille; proud and rough towards the subalterns, he was brutal, arbitrary, and odious to the prisoners; and under the excuse of precaution for their safe durance, he surrounded their captivity with a thousand vexations, cruelties, and privations. His favourite virtue was parsimony. To recoup a hundredfold the price of the charge he had bought, he himself measured out the water, the bread, the fuel, and the clothes. When he had not enough prisoners, and the revenues diminished, he complained, and asked for more. Those under his care, he retained under a thousand pretexts, or made against them reports which retarded their release.

The old bastions had been laid out in gardens full of flowers and fruit-trees and fountains, and in these gardens the prisoners had been allowed to take the air. But the Marquis de Launay had turned this ground into fruit and vegetable gardens, which he let; and thus the unhappy captives were reduced to taking the air on the top of the towers of the fortress. This, however, was found to demand too close a watch, and M. de Launay suppressed this privilege also, and those in custody were reduced to the use of the great court. The court, of which a description has been already given, was two hundred feet long by seventy-two feet wide. The walls enclosing it on all sides were a hundred feet high, so that it was little better than a huge well, where in winter the cold was insupportable, and in summer the heat was intense, and was unrelieved by a breath of air. The prisoners took their turns to walk in this court. Whenever any one crossed the court (and this was happening continually, as the kitchens and the lodgings of the officers were in the new buildings erected by M. de Sartines), a signal was made, and the prisoner was required to dive out of sight into a cabinet, without light or air, and remain concealed till notice was given him to come out.

We return now to the point from which we digressed, merely adding, that Madame Berthier, not being in prison for political reasons, and being, moreover, the wife of the Intendant of Paris, was treated in every way better than other prisoners, conformably to her husband's orders. But for this, Gabrielle would certainly not have obtained permission to visit her.

M. Berthier stood mute with astonishment in the doorway, contemplating his wife and Gabrielle André.

'See!' exclaimed madame; 'there, there, there is the Beast! Look, Gabriel, my cat, that you may not forget him. Is he not ugly? Is he not stout, and coarse, and bloated? Look at his hideous eyes!'

'You have got a companion!' said Berthier, at last, with his eyes fixed on Gabrielle. 'How is that, my good friend De Launay?'

'I did not know that you would object,' said the governor. 'You will surely remember that you allowed some of the servants to visit her occasionally, and bring her linen and fruit, and trifles to amuse her. If I am not mistaken, your wishes were express on that point.'

'My dear marquis, this girl is not one of our servants.'

'No,' answered the governor, 'but I understand that she was one till quite lately. If it is your wish that she be removed, it shall be complied with at once.'

'By no means. I do not object. Is she not a charming little creature, my friend? Gabrielle, sweetest! step from behind the curtain. Look how she blushes, how bewitchingly she hangs her head, what hair, what a neck, what lovely temples! Dearest! do not be shy. My worthy De Launay is quite a connoisseur in woman-flesh. Step out and show him your ankles. Now, marquis, what do you think of my taste?'

Gabrielle drew up her head and glanced at him scornfully; her little lips quivered with contempt and rage.

'She is out of humour,' said Berthier, laughing still; 'the rogue cannot twist out of me all the money she wants. She has set her heart on some diamonds. Now you be judge, De Launay, is she not ten thousand times more attractive, bewitching, luscious, in her charming peasant's dress, than in a suit of silk, and with a diamond brooch?'

'Perfectly so,' answered the governor.

'You hear that,' said Berthier, his fat sides shaking; 'you hear that, Gabrielle. It is the verdict of a man of all men the most competent to express an opinion on the subject.'

Madame Berthier now started forward.

'You liar, you coward!' she exclaimed, dragging in her hand the old jacket she had torn. 'See this! I have been mangling it. I thought for a moment it was you, and I bit it, and scratched it, and stamped on it, and beat it. Wait till I have the chance of serving you as I have served this dress. I pray night and morning for the chance, and I dream that it is about to be answered. I dream—' she put one hand to her brow, and looked frowning on the floor—'I dream that I hear voices from all the yards and courts, from all the cells and dungeons—thin shrill voices, all night long, crying out to Heaven;—the voices have waxed louder of late, and deeper in tone, and mightier in number, and I have felt the earth heave, and the walls reel, and the towers stagger. Every night the voices are louder and more numerous, and now they roar like thunder, and soon they will rend this prison, and fling its stones far and wide, and then! then, Berthier, I shall come leaping out from among the falling blocks, and run straight at you. I await my time.'

'She is raving,' said the Intendant to De Launay.

'Raving! yes, made so by you. But ah! though you have shut me in here, I shall not be here for long. Perhaps I may be out very soon. When you least expect me, I may come bounding in upon you, through the door or the window, or breaking my way up through the floor, or tearing my way through the ceiling, or burrowing through the walls to get at you.' She stopped, raised and clasped her hands over her head, and pirouetted round her chair two or three times; then, fronting her husband, she continued with a scream: 'I shall be out soon, very soon, and far away from you and my father, where you will never find me, that I am sure of, for, though I know the place, I do not know the name of it.'

'And pray, Madame Plomb, how are you going to get out?' asked Berthier, in a mocking tone; 'are you going to escape through that window, or dig through six feet of stone wall with your nails and teeth?'

'No,' she answered, slyly; 'there are other ways of getting released.'

'Ah!' said the Intendant, in the same bantering manner; 'you are depending on my well-known affection for yourself, which will not suffer me to remain long separated from you.'

'No,' cried Madame Berthier, laughing cunningly; 'I shall not trust to that.'

'Only one way remains,' observed her husband, rubbing his hands,—'a way as pleasant to both parties as could be desired,—a method whereby I shall be saved anxiety on your account, and be placed at liberty to contract a marriage, to raise, perhaps, my little pet to the position of wife.'

'What do you mean?' asked madame, sharply, fastening her restless eyes for the moment upon him.

Berthier tapped the walls with his knuckles.

'Ah!' said he; 'although whitened over there are hard blocks of granite behind, hard enough to split quickly such a cracked head as yours. Knock your own brains out against these stones, madame, and none will be better satisfied than your obedient servant.'

The unfortunate woman set her teeth. The cat was rubbing its head against her skirt; she stooped and picked it up and held it by the fore-legs against her breast, with the body hanging down. The cat, not satisfied with a position which undoubtedly distressed it, miawed; but Madame Berthier paid no attention to its complaints.

'Indeed,' continued Berthier, 'I have heard—but my good friend will correct me if I am wrong—that more than one captive here has so terminated his confinement, and it was greatly to their credit, I think; it showed a spirit, deserving admiration. Desirous of saving the privy purse the expense of their keep, they freed the crown, by their own act, of all anxiety about them. Certainly it cost a trifle to whitewash over the splashes of blood, where the head had been battered against the wall, but a few sous would cover that.'