Denounced

He thought, looking round the gloomy chapel, while he considered and mused on these things, that his head might reach that little iron gate, or grille, in the shutters if he placed upon the table the chair and then stood on that, and thus he would be able to obtain a sight of what was outside. So he set to work to place them in position, and then, on clambering up, found that he could obtain a view of the garden of the Bastille, and, owing to a low-roofed portion of the fortress almost immediately in front of him, of away beyond into the city.

In the garden he perceived a lady walking, accompanied by a dog that seemed from its action to be very old, for it moved slowly and feebly without any gambols; and he wondered who she was, and if she might be De Launey's wife, who was "young enough to be his daughter." The garden itself, he could also perceive, since the chapel was no higher than the first floor, formed the interior, or courtyard, of all towers of the prison, and he saw that, by glancing upwards, the windows of other rooms, or cells, were visible to him. Indeed, not only were they visible, but so also was one of the inmates, who, as Bertie observed him, was leaning against his little window frame with his face at the bars as though to catch the air. He was a man somewhat over middle age, with scowling features and long, unkempt hair, and as Bertie regarded him he saw his lips moving as though either he was talking to some fellow-prisoner within the room or muttering to himself. This man fascinated Elphinston so that he could not remove his eyes from off him-for in those other eyes there seemed to be a hell of despair-and, as he thus looked, the man, shifting his gaze, glanced down and across, and so saw him at his lattice. For a moment he stared at Bertie and then made a motion to him with his finger-it seemed as though to bid him stay where he was-and then disappeared from the window to return a moment later with a little piece of light board in one hand to which he pointed with the other.

Made more curious than ever by this, Elphinston continued to regard him and his actions fixedly, which were as follows: First the man held up in his right hand-his left still grasping the board-something that appeared like a piece of burnt wood, and then, applying it to the board, drew on it the letter N. Pointing to it, he next drew the letters O, U, and V, then E, then A, then another U, until at last he had spelt out the whole of the word Nouveau. Next, after a glance across at Bertie, as though to ask if he understood, and seeing that he did, he again went on with four more letters, making the word Venu, and carefully finishing the sentence by drawing, last of all, a solitary note of interrogation, and looking over to Bertie as though awaiting his reply to the question. Receiving from him two or three emphatic nods of the head, he began again, and this time produced a longer sentence, which, by recollecting each word as it had been found, Bertie made out to be (in French, of course), "I have been here twenty-one years."

At this melancholy information he tried to throw into his features-for no action of his body could be at all apparent to the man-as much sympathy as was possible, whereon the other again pointed to his board and continued with his letters until he had formed the sentence, "Have you been before the Judges?" and receiving a negative shake from Bertie's head, again worked out, "Nor I, yet," and waited as though to see what effect this stupendous piece of information might have on a newly-arrived prisoner.

If the unhappy man desired to see horror depicted on that newcomer's face-if such a sight could be gratifying to him who had lived forgotten there so long, without, perhaps, even knowing why he was so detained, he must indeed have been gratified. For as that terrible sentence came out letter by letter on the board, Bertie shrank back from the lattice, while his countenance must plainly have shown to the other the emotions of pity mixed with dread and dismay with which the communication had filled him. "Twenty-one years," he muttered to himself, forgetting even for the moment his new-found acquaintance opposite, "twenty-one years without knowing what he is charged with; without hope. My God! what has his life been during that time; waiting, waiting always! And it may be so with me," he thought, shuddering as he did so, "it may be my case. I am twenty-six years old now; at forty-seven I may still be in this prison, untried, uncondemned, yet unreleased-no nearer to my freedom than now." And again he shuddered.

He glanced over to the unhappy prisoner in the opposite tower as he finished these reflections, and saw that he was waiting for his attention to begin his letters again. And, once more fascinated by their terrible revelations, he watched eagerly as the next sentence was formed.

Slowly the words were composed, letter by letter; slowly they met his eyes, and seemed to numb his brain and strike a chill to his heart. "I am not the worst case," the prisoner spelt out. "Above you in the Tour de la Bertaudière is one who has been here for forty-two years. Untried still!" Then, with a wave of his hand, the man vanished from his window-perhaps because he heard the gaoler coming into his room-and Bertie saw him no more that day.

Yet that which he had gleaned from his opposite neighbour was enough to furnish him with sufficient food for miserable reflections all through the remainder of the day, and far into the night when he lay sleepless on his unclean bed. Bluet had visited him twice during that period, bringing him two more meals-each good enough in its way, and with different meats at each, but badly cooked; and on the second occasion, and when he could perceive through the lattice that night was coming on, the turnkey had offered to let him have some light if he wished it. High up above the latticed window there was an iron socket into which a candle could be fitted, or on to which a lamp might be swung, and Bluet had volunteered to bring in a ladder and place the light there if Elphinston desired it. But he replied, "No, he wanted nothing. He would try to sleep till daybreak, try to rest. The day had been long enough for him already."

"Ma foi! sans doute!" the fellow replied, he seeming neither more nor less drunk than he had been at nine o'clock in the morning. "Sans doute, monsieur is fatigued, yet he must not lose heart. If the judges do not release him ere long, he shall be moved to another chamber where, perhaps, he will have some society. There is plenty here. Of all sorts. Then monsieur will be gay."

"Gay!" exclaimed Bertie. "Gay! In this place?"

"And why not? Oh, figure to yourself, there is gaiety here and to suffice. Hark now to that! Hark, I say!" and at the moment he spoke Bertie heard a voice in his own tongue trolling forth a drinking song.

"Ha! ha! Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the turnkey, "it is the gallant captain. Also a captain like monsieur, but of the road. They say he stopped the Cardinal's carriage at Fontainebleau not so long ago, yet this he denies. And a spy, too, of England, they say. He plays the big game. Mon Dieu! listen! he sings well, though I understand no word of your somewhat severe and sombre tongue."

Severe and sombre though it might be, it did not sound so as the gallant captain shouted forth his drinking song.

"He's gay," said Bluet; "he has found a new companion-one, however, who will scarce join in his mirth. A miserable creature sent in by the priests, a murderer, they hint. Mon Dieu! either he will desolate the captain or the captain will drive him mad with his carousings."

After which, and having wished Bertie "a good-night and good repose," he took himself off, and, ere the latter slept, he could have sworn he heard Bluet's harsh voice joining in a song with the captain, though this time in the French language.

"So," he thought to himself as, after having knelt by his wretched bed and prayed for mercy from his God, he flung himself upon it, "so 'tis to this pass I am brought-I, who have served the French King faithfully for years, who have committed no crime against him. And am I doomed to remain here forgotten? Perhaps be like that other one with whom I communicated to-day, or that still more unhappy man whose life has been spent in these awful walls. Forty-two years, he said of him-forty-two years!" And again he applied that second case to himself as he had done the first. "Forty-two years! I shall be then sixty-six. All, all will be dead and gone. My mother long since, Kate almost of a certainty; Douglas, too; even the scoundrel Fordingbridge! O God!" he cried, wrought up by these reflections, "release me from this place, I beseech Thee, release me; even though it be only by death. Let me not linger on here untried for a fault I know not of, uncondemned and forgotten. Take my life, but not my freedom while I live. What have I done? What have I done?" And with such a heartbroken prayer as this on his lips Bertie Elphinston fell asleep at last, if that can be termed sleep which was no more than a disturbed forgetfulness-a broken slumber from which he would wake with a start as some sound from other parts of the prison penetrated his chamber, or a rat would scamper across his bed and touch his hand with its foul, dank coat.

CHAPTER XXIII

AT LAST

The days went on slowly and without anything to distinguish them from one another, until, at last, it seemed to Bertie in his dungeon that he would soon lose count of them, would forget how many had passed since first he entered the prison, and would become confused as to the days of the week. Every night he heard the roaring of the English "captain" – if such he was-and every day he communicated with the prisoner in the tower opposite to him, but these alone were the incidents of his life, for beyond the visits of Bluet with his meals, no one came near him. And he thought ever of what those outside would imagine had become of him. With that opposite prisoner, for whose appearance at his window he looked eagerly every morning, he had now established an almost perfect system of corresponding, so that, although their intercourse was naturally very slow, it was at least something with which to beguile many weary hours. He had been unable to discover any board which would answer to the one on which his strangely made friend wrote and rubbed out letter after letter and formed his words, but as he had found several large pieces of paper in a corner of the chapel, he had managed to shape a number of large letters-indeed, all of the alphabet-which, by holding each up successively, answered the purpose equally well. And thus they corresponded slowly and wearily, but still intelligibly, and in that way the monotony of their lives was relieved. Yet even this was not always practicable, and sometimes they had to desist from communicating with each other at all since, on certain days the sentries were set on the tower in which the man was, and would have discovered their correspondence had they not discontinued it. But at other times the men's duty took them to other parts of the prison roof-for the corps de garde was not strong, the walls, locks, and bars being alone considered sufficient to prevent any attempt at escape-and then they were uninterrupted.

"I am alone in my cell," the other had communicated to Bertie, "and my name is Falmy. I am of Geneva. Of the Reformed faith. I know of no other reason why I am here so long. Fleury sent me here the year before he was Cardinal."

Every morning, however, he prefaced any other message to Bertie by the question, "Have you been examined yet?" and as each day the other shook his head he seemed by his expression to show that he regretted such was the case.

"If you are not examined soon, your stay may be long. But take heart," he signalled, "the principal examiner is extremely irregular, yet he comes at last in most cases."

"He has not done so in yours, poor friend," returned Bertie, "nor in the case of him who has been here forty-two years! Who is he?"

"Le Marquis de Chevagny, of near Chartres. It was the Grand Monarque who sent him here. He is forgotten. In December he will have been here forty-three years."

"What was his fault?"

"He wrote a pasquinade on Madame La Vallière. She obtained the lettre de cachet from the King."

"And," signalled back Bertie, "for that he has suffered forty-three years!"

"He will suffer till he dies. Louis and La Vallière have been long dead, so have all of their time. He is forgotten. He will never go forth. Nor shall I. Those who are forgotten are lost."

With such recitals as these it was not surprising that Bertie's heart should sink ever lower; that as days followed days and grew at last into weeks, he began to feel sure that for him the gates of his prison would never open. He, too, would be forgotten by those who had sent him there; would he, he asked himself, be forgotten by those who loved him? No one knew that he was incarcerated in those dreadful walls, that fortress in which one was as much shut off from the world as in a tomb. No one would ever know!

He consulted Falmy one day as to whether there was no possibility of communicating with that outer world, no chance of letting some friend who could interest himself in his behalf know where he was, but in reply the other only shook his head moodily. Then, after staring out of his window for some moments, with always in his face that look of despair which Bertie had observed from the first and had been so fascinated by, Falmy made a sign to him to attend, and began his letters again.

"There is," he signalled, "one chance alone, be confined with some prisoner whose release may come while you are together. Then to send a message to your friends. By word of mouth alone. No written line can go forth. All are searched for letters ere they are let go."

Bertie thought a moment, then he asked: "Can I get changed to another room?" Again Falmy shook his head gloomily and pondered. But another thought appeared to come to his mind, and he signalled:

"You will be changed ere long if you are not released or examined. None remain in the chapel who are to stay in this devil's den. I have made many friends at your window, and lost them all. Soon I shall lose you," and as he finished the last word Bertie saw Falmy's face working piteously and knew that he wept. And he, his heart torn with both their griefs, wept too, and left his window suddenly to throw himself on his bed.

And still the days went on, and the weeks, and he knew, by the notches he made on the wall as each fresh dawn broke, as well as by the increased cold, that the depth of winter had come. On the roof of the Tour de la Bertaudière he could see the snow lying now, or heard it fall into the garden with a thud when a slight thaw happened, while the cold became so intense that neither he nor Falmy could stay long at the window to communicate with each other. He had given various little orders to Bluet for payment out of his stock of Louis d'ors during this time, so that the man still looked after him well, and he had a few fagots of wood allowed him, or rather found him, in consequence, over which he would sit and shiver, though the large bulging bars in front of the grate prevented him from getting near enough to the sticks to derive much warmth from them. And often he was driven to seek his pallet and lie huddled up in the foul bedding to keep himself from perishing.

And still the weeks went on now, and he was there, though he had begged the turnkey to ask the Governor to remove him to a warmer and smaller room, and also to some place where he might have company. But Bluet had only shrugged his shoulders and said that such a request was useless, adding that De Launey was a brigand who would do nothing until it pleased him.

"Yet," replied Bertie, "he said he would do his best for me and make me comfortable. Comfortable! comfortable! My God!"

"Poof! poof?" exclaimed Bluet. "You must not believe in him. He is full of words to those who come in-le sal Gascon!-because he knows not how soon they may go out again, nor whether they may not have come in by mistake-as mon Dieu! many have-nor what trouble those who go out may plunge him into. But once he finds they are not going-that is to say, not going just at once-why, then he possesses the Bastille memory which, ma foi! means an agreeable forgetfulness. Tenez! have no hopes from that shivering escargot!"

"I am doomed, then, to die in this vault-to be killed by the cold and the draughts!"

"Non, non, be calm. You will go forth. None but princes and marshals stay long here. And there has been a clearing from above; many have departed; there is room for you now. Soon I shall remove monsieur."

"Who are gone? Any who have been here long?"

"No. Many new ones, and one who was here eight years-by a mistake. He was a Hollander, a doctor, and-mort de ma vie!-they thought he was Schwab, the Alsatian poisoner. He now is gone, and the pig, De Launey, entertained him to breakfast ere he went, though he would allow him only la petite bouteille while he remained. And the captain of the road, the sweet singer of songs, he is gone too, only 'tis to the Place de Grève, for a certain purpose," and he motioned to his throat as he spoke and winked at the other, who shuddered. Vile and dissolute as the man's roarings and carousals had been, they had served to cheer him up in his loneliness and desolation, and he regretted his fate.

Another week passed, and Bertie, who had now contracted a terrible cold and cough that plagued him at nights, began to believe that he would never leave the chapel alive, when Bluet, coming with his breakfast one morning, told him that he was to be moved.

"Thank God!" exclaimed the poor prisoner, "thank God! it cannot be worse than this."

"No," said the turnkey, "because where you are going to you will find la société. Though, par hazard, I know not if it will enchant you much. There is the oldest pensioner of Madame La Bastille, the Marquis de Chevagny-a sad man, taking little enjoyment of his life-though he should be used to it by now! and another, a fool, a madman, they say a murderer. But I know not. However, he is a compatriot of Monsieur le Capitaine, an Englishman."

"What is his name?" asked Bertie.

"Monsieur, to many there are no names in the Bastille. Only numbers, with few exceptions, such as that of De Chevagny, of whom we are justly proud. He is a credit to us and to our care. Still, I doubt not you will soon find out the idiot's name. He has his sane moments, though they are few. But his principal remark is that he trusts the wheel is not too painful. 'Tis to that he is bound to go."

"An idiot! And sent to the wheel, even though a murderer! Will they do that?"

"Faith, they will. For, tenez, monsieur" – and he laid a dirty finger along his nose and looked slyly at Bertie-"he is a prisoner of the Church, of the priests. He has outraged them. Do you think he will escape their claws if he were forty thousand times as mad?"

"When shall I join this company?" asked Bertie. "I shall be glad to go. At least, the Marquis de Chevagny should be an interesting companion."

"At once. I will go fetch Pierre to assist in carrying up your baggage and furniture, and then the King's Lieutenant will escort you to the calotte. And, cheer up, 'tis high, but pleasant; you can see tout Paris, and the top windows of the Rue St. Antoine. Ma foi! a gay view, a fine retreat."

While the man was gone, Bertie placed the table and chair against the wall and sprang on top of them, and since it was Falmy's usual time for being at the window, was happy in finding him there. "Adieu," he signalled as rapidly as he possibly could, "I go to one of the calottes. I pray we may be able to correspond as before." Then in an instant he knew by the light in Falmy's face that such was the case, for he nodded and himself began to signal back: "If not the one above me, we can. I-" but at this moment Bertie heard Bluet coming back to the door, and, hurriedly jumping down, replaced the chair and table in their accustomed position. He had never been able to judge whether the turnkey would have remonstrated at this correspondence with another prisoner, and perhaps have caused it to be stopped. He did not, indeed, think he would do so, but he had always taken precautions to prevent him knowing what they did, and he took them now on this the last occasion.

Bluet was attended by the other turnkey, Pierre, and accompanied by the King's Lieutenant, who was second in command in the prison; and while the two former busied themselves in getting together his bed and linen, as well as his furniture, the latter addressed him with that French etiquette and politeness which so often does duty for kind-heartedness.

"Monsieur has, I trust, found himself as comfortable as circumstances will permit," he said, "and has wanted for nothing. The food served in this chapel is always of the first order."

"I have nothing to complain of," replied Elphinston; "since I am here, I must take what comes. Yet, I wish you would answer me a question or so, monsieur. You are, or have been, a soldier, like myself. May not that ancient comradeship of arms make you gracious enough to do so?"

"It is not the graciousness I lack," replied the officer, "it is the power. For, Monsieur Elphinston, you must surely know we are vowed to silence and secrecy within these walls. It is more than our posts, nay, our heads, are worth to answer questions or divulge secrets."

"If I could know," said Bertie, "when I shall be interrogated it would be much."

"No mortal man in the Bastille can tell you that," the King's Lieutenant interrupted, "not even De Launey himself. The examiner, or judge, comes at fitful times and without warning. He came a week ago; he may come again next week; he may not come again for a year, or for two years."

"Is it because he did not concern himself with my case a week ago that I am now moved?" Bertie asked wistfully; "is it because I am passed over and may have to wait a long time now that this change takes place?"

The officer shrugged his shoulders and turned his face away. He was a soldier and had a heart within him, in spite of being the Lieutenant of the Bastille, and he could not reply that Bertie had guessed accurately, that it was because he had been passed over, and might, in consequence, be passed over for years, that he was now removed from the chapel.

"I see. I understand," Bertie said. "I understand very well. I may linger on here till I am old; I may become, if I live long enough, the oldest prisoner!" Then, once more addressing the Lieutenant, he said, though without any hope of receiving an answer:

"If I could only know to whom or what I owe this incarceration it might ease my mind; might, perhaps, enable me to confute the charge that in years to come may be brought against me. Can you not help me! – me, a brother soldier?"

Bluet and Pierre had left the chapel with the furniture and bedding, so that they were alone now, and the Lieutenant, glancing round the place, said softly:

"Have you no suspicion? Can you not guess? Does not your memory point to one whom you have injured?"

"My memory," replied Bertie, "points to one who has injured me and those I love so deeply that, if had the power, he would have caused me to be sent here. But even his devilish malignity could not procure him that. He cannot have the power."

He had thought of Fordingbridge over and over again as the man whose hand might have inflicted this last deadly blow, yet he could never convince himself that it could indeed be he. He would be almost as much an outcast now, if in the city, as he would have been in London with a price upon his head. How, he had asked himself, could it be Fordingbridge?

And the Lieutenant's next words, uttered in almost a whisper, in spite of their being still alone, seemed to confirm his doubts.

"Think again," he said; "reflect on some other than this one you mention; on one whom you injured, whose ambition you thwarted in its dearest design; on one who is powerful, has the ear of the King, who could send you here, and did so. Reflect!"

Bertie drew back in amazement and stared at the Lieutenant, unable to believe his own ears. Then he repeated: