Denounced

"Though he may take months to do it." Alas! it soon seemed to Archibald Sholto that he was more like to take years. He had got into communication with this important personage through the influence of the cardinal, but once in communication had advanced, or seemed to advance, no further. The judge wrote in his tablets, it is true, the name of Elphinston, and said that if he were in any prison in France he would take care that his case was inquired into sooner or later. Beyond that he refused to say another word.

And with this Sholto had to be content, and to try and persuade himself that it was at least something toward the desired end. Also he wrote to Kate, saying that it was from the Bastille that Fordingbridge had been brought to execution, and that therefore doubtless it was the Bastille in which Bertie was. And he bade her be of good heart and hope for the best, since one of the principal examiners of prisoners detained in the prisons had promised that his case should be inquired into.

"Though he may take months to do it!" the cardinal had said. Verily it seemed as if he had indeed known the man of whom he wrote.

For the months passed away outside the Bastille as they were passing away inside, and to those without there came no news of him within; so that, at last, Kate was led almost to believe that, as her husband had lied to her from the very beginning, so he had lied to her at the end. For it seemed to her that if Bertie had ever been in the gloomy fortress, by which she now so often walked and to which she went and stood before and gazed upon, he must have been released ere this, or in some way have found an opportunity of communicating with her.

CHAPTER XXVIII

"A KIND OF CHANGE CAME IN MY FATE."

It was in the early part of May, 1747, that Fordingbridge had been led out to his doom, and month after month had passed, another May had come and gone, and, at last, another December-the December of 1748-had come round. Then even the hopeless state into which Bertie had been so long plunged was quickened back to life by the behaviour of two people with whom he held some intercourse.

Although Falmy and he had almost ceased now, from very weariness during the passage of time-perhaps from heartbrokenness-to communicate much, they did occasionally do so when either considered that he had anything to tell the other that might cause him some faint stir of interest; and one morning the former, appearing at his window, made signs to Bertie that he was about to signal. Then when the other nodded to show that he was attending to him, the Genevese traced on his board the sentence, "Have you heard anything unusual?" To this Bertie, with a bound of his heart-for, in spite of his long incarceration and his growing hopelessness, he still had, although he knew it not, a ray of courage, of presentiment, left in him-shook his head, and by eager facial signs asked Falmy to explain his meaning. But he, whether it might be that he was afraid of communicating too swiftly anything he had gathered, only signalled back, "Say nothing to De Chevagny as yet. It is rumoured that they have remembered him."

"Remembered him," thought Bertie, "at last!" and as he so reflected he looked round upon the poor old man sitting with his white head bent over his knees, and wondered if, should this be true, it would be for his good to go forth.

"'Tis now forty-five years," he said to himself, "since he came here. A lifetime! Of what use for him to regain his liberty? He said once to me, when first I was brought to this room, that this awful place was his only home. Heaven grant, if they release him, that he may not find it to be so!"

He watched Bluet's manner when he removed the remains of their next meal-which meals had gradually, as month followed month, become more sparse and meagre, possibly because De Launey had now come to suppose that neither of them would ever be able to publish to anyone outside those gloomy walls the story of his neglect and parsimony, to call it by no other name-and as he did so he noticed that this good-natured fellow seemed even kinder to the old man than ever.

"Mon Dieu!" he began now, with his usual exclamation, varied only occasionally with his ma foi-"mon Dieu, 'tis cold, Monsieur le Marquis. Yet, I'll warrant me, there are blazing fires in many a happy home in France. Par exemple, now, in the Château de Chevagny I will dare to say they keep good fires for monsieur."

The old man looked up at him with a startled, hurt look; then he said softly:

"Bluet, you have always been good and kind to me. In the ten years you have been here I have come to look on you as a friend. Yet, when you recall needlessly to me my-my long-vanished home-that I shall never see more-you hurt, you wound me."

"Ah! avec ça!" said Bluet, "I'll wager you see that home again yet. Or, perhaps-mon Dieu! why not? – the Hôtel de Chevagny in Paris itself. Monsieur le Marquis is not to suppose we shall entertain him for ever; no, no! Neither is he to imagine that because he has dwelt with us so long-it is a little long, I concede-he shall never leave us."

The old man regarded him fixedly for a moment, then he sighed and gave a true French shrug to his shoulders. "If," he exclaimed, in his gentle, well-bred voice, the aristocratic tones of which he had never lost-"if it pleases you to wound me, Bluet, you must do so. Yet I know not why. We have always been such good friends."

"Cease," said Bertie to the turnkey in a whisper. "Why play with an old man thus?"

"It is no play," Bluet replied in the same whisper, only that his was a husky, vinous one. "He is remembered. D'Argenson comes to-morrow night. He will go before him. It may be that on the next day he will be free. Break it to him if you can."

"You are certain of this?" Bertie asked, intensely startled and interested now. "Certain? I thought you told me long ago that no one knew who the judges would call before them."

"Ordinairement," replied Bluet, while he glanced at the marquis, who was again warming himself at the fire, "no one does. But this is different. The minister sent a day or so ago asking if there was one incarcerated here of his name. They say the primate, Tencin, stirred him to it. Then-then-voyez-vous-D'Argenson's secretary came and-poof! – we hear many things, we jailors! D'Argenson will come himself to-morrow night, and, mort de ma vie! we shall lose the prison flower! Where-where will he go to? May the good God protect him!"

The name of Tencin roused many bitter reflections in Bertie's heart, many recollections of how it was this cardinal and archbishop who had been the mainspring, the prime mover, in the Scots' invasion of-of-was it a year ago, or two years ago? He had to pause and count over to himself the time ere he could recollect, for he seemed to have lost all power now of reckoning the period that he had been in the Bastille. Then, when he had arrived at the remembrance that he had absolutely been here for two winters and was in the third December of his detention, his mind went back to the name of Tencin again. Tencin, he repeated-Tencin, the minister who brought about the invasion of England, who was the friend, almost, indeed, the patron, of his own master, Charles Edward. Yet he, a devoted follower and adherent of that Prince, a man who had followed him until the last, had had to suffer so cruel an imprisonment as this which he had undergone! Tencin! Would he allow that if he knew of it? Would he let one who had served the Prince so well be incarcerated there? It might be not, if he but knew that such was the case. Only, how could the fact be brought to the powerful cardinal's knowledge? That was the question.

He glanced at the marquis, who was still sitting gazing into the embers, and he remembered that Bluet had said again, before he left the calotte with the remains of the supper, "Break it to him if you can." Well, he would try and break it to him; only, he prayed Heaven that in the breaking he might not kill the old man with the shock. And, if that did not happen, then-why, then, perhaps, through him the cardinal might be apprised of how a faithful adherent of the cause he had championed was wrongfully immured in the Bastille-immured, neglected, and forgotten.

"Monsieur de Chevagny," he said, drawing up another chair by the side of the old man, "are you fatigued to-night? You seem so-seem more weary than usual. You are not ill?" In truth, the old marquis had been presenting signs of late that his strength was failing rapidly, and that he was fast nearing the only escape from the Bastille that had for forty-five years seemed likely to come to him; and to-night he appeared even more feeble, as well as more absent-minded and lethargic, than ever; also he was more dazed than was his wont. But he replied:

"No, no, not ill-or only so from having lived for seventy years; and also from having passed forty-five of those years in prison. A long while! A long while! A lifetime! My father's whole life was not so long."

"Yet," said Bertie soothingly, "it may still be prolonged; it may-"

"Would you desire for me that it should be prolonged?" the other asked, lifting his eyes to Bertie's. "Is that to be wished, think you?"

For a moment the younger man hesitated, then he said, speaking very gently:

"Yes, if-if you could find happiness thereby. For suppose-only suppose-that some great chance should come to you; some undreamed of, unsuspected chance, by which you might be enabled to see once more the wife you so tenderly loved, the little child you left sleeping on her bosom-"

"Stop! For God's sake, stop!" De Chevagny exclaimed. "You torture me; you wring my heart worse, far worse, than ever Bluet did. You conjure up hopes that my senses tell me can never be realized; you bring before me thoughts and ideas that I have been trying to bury and put away for many, many years now."

And, as he spoke, Bertie saw his old eyes fill with tears; again saw those tears drop from his eyelids to his snowy beard.

"Oh, my friend, my fellow-prisoner," he said, "believe me, I would not torture you unnecessarily. Think you that I, before whom this living tomb yawns as it yawned before you years ago-that I, who, Great Powers! may be here, in this very room, forty years hence-would say one word to distress you? No, no. Never, never! But, listen to me, I beseech you; and, above all, listen to me calmly. I have something to tell you, something that I pray earnestly may make you very, very happy."

As he spoke he dropped on one knee by the old man's side, while, taking one of his hands in his, he passed his arm round the other's waist, and, drawing him to him, supported his now trembling form as a son might have done. And as he did so he felt how worn and thin his poor old body was.

"What is it?" whispered the marquis. "What is it? You-you frighten me! I-I cannot bear a shock."

"Pray, pray," continued Bertie, "do not be frightened nor alarmed. Indeed, you have no cause. But, oh, my dear and honoured friend and companion, there has come strange news into this place, strange news for you-nay, start not! Strange news! It is said-strive to be calm, I beseech you-that, that-be brave! as you have been so long-your release is at hand. It may come soon, at any moment now."

He felt the old man's feeble frame quiver in his grasp; he felt him draw a long breath, and saw him close his eyes. Then for a long while he was silent, sitting enfolded in the other's arms as though he were asleep or dead. But at last he spoke:

"If it should be so, if this is true, what will become of me? Can I hope to find my wife alive? And for my little child that was-she is almost old now, if she still lives. She will not know me; will not, perhaps, believe I am her father."

"Oh, how can she doubt it? And for your wife-she need not be dead; how many women live far beyond your own age-why, my mother is near it. Look hopefully forward, therefore, I beg of you, to your release; think of what happiness may be yours still."

But, although Bertie used every argument to prove to De Chevagny that there must be still some period of such happiness before him, however short that period might be, he could not bring him to so regard his forthcoming release. Above all, he could not make him believe for one instant that he would ever meet his wife or child upon earth; and he reiterated again and again that, if he could not have them with him, he would almost prefer to remain a prisoner.

"I have grown used to the filth and squalor of this place," he said, "to my wretched rags. My hotel across the river, even if it has not been long since confiscated, would be no fit abode for me. Better remain here without hope, better forget that I was ever a free man, loving others and beloved myself, than go forth into the world where I am unknown. And," he said tenderly, "I have at least one friend here-I have you."

On the next day, however, when Bluet had told him that beyond all doubt he was to be taken before D'Argenson that night, he began to show a little more interest in what was occurring, and, at last, to look forward eagerly to the hour when the Examiner should arrive.

"For," he said, "I shall have a piteous tale to tell him; perhaps when he hears it he may be disposed to look into the cases of some others who are here. There is that poor man Falmy, over the way; he, too, should be released."

At six o'clock the King's Lieutenant paid a visit to the calotte-De Launey had never been known to visit a "guest" from the time he was first received by him-and asked the marquis whether he would choose to have a change of linen and some fresher clothes in which to appear before the judges; but this offer he firmly refused.

"As I am," he said, "as I have been for so many years," and he held up his arm, from which his sleeve hung in a hundred tatters; "so I will go before him, and, if he releases me, so I will go forth into the world again."

"That," said the King's Lieutenant, politely and with a slight smile, "Monsieur le Marquis must know will not be permitted. No guest leaves us who does not sign a paper in which he undertakes most solemnly to divulge nothing of what has occurred within. He would scarcely, therefore, be allowed to depart in such a garb as that in which Monsieur le Marquis is now unhappily clad. Besides, the illustrious family of De Chevagny is rich; the head of the house will scarcely adorn himself with such raiment when he goes back to his proper position."

"Rich!" the old man echoed with bitter scorn-"rich! What have I to do with riches now? If I find not my wife or child, I shall not live a week in my unaccustomed lot. A garret such as this will do well enough for me."

The Lieutenant departed after this, saying that the marquis-as he was scrupulous now to call him on every occasion-might expect to be sent for early in the evening; and those two, who had grown to be such friends, sat down to pass what, with the exception of the night, would probably be their last hours together. All was arranged between them as to what was to be done on Elphinston's behalf when once De Chevagny was free-he was first to seek out his mother and Kate, being careful to say nothing to the latter about her husband and his end until he discovered what she knew about him, and in any circumstances to be very discreet in what he revealed. Then he was to strive in every way to bring Elphinston's case before Tencin, so that something might be done as soon as possible.

"For," said Bertie, "never will I believe that when once his Eminence knows that I have been thrust in here under what must be, cannot help but be, a false charge, a mistake, he will allow me to remain. Oh, my friend, my friend, lose no time, I beseech you, in releasing me from this death in life!"

"Have no fear," replied De Chevagny, "I shall remember. First your mother, Madame Elphinston, at Passy; then to her who was that creature's wife; then-then to the King or to-what is his name? – Tencin! Tencin! I shall not forget. Yet, oh, my friend, how shall I leave you here-alone! And you so young-so young! Not yet in your prime."

"Fear not for me," replied Elphinston, assuming a hopefulness he by no means felt; for he doubted if, even with the Marquis de Chevagny at liberty and free to plead his cause, his release was likely to be obtained. If there was, indeed, as the King's Lieutenant had hinted, some terrible and powerful enemy in the background whom he had injured without knowing it, it was possible that even Tencin's exertions and influence might be of no avail. Yet still he sought to cheer the other.

"Fear not for me. Once you are free to bring my case before the King I have no fear myself" – then he started, for he heard the clanging of the doors. "Hark!" he said, "hark! They are coming for you. Oh, I pray God that when you return from your examination you may do so with your liberty assured-as it must be! As it must be! Otherwise they would not send for you at all," and he kissed the old man's hand as he spoke, and whispered to him to be calm.

"God bless you!" the marquis replied-"God bless you! I will be brave."

As he did so the door was unlocked, and once more the King's Lieutenant came in, accompanied by four turnkeys, one of whom was Bluet, who behind the officer's back kept gesticulating and nodding his head and winking at Bertie-who stood a little behind De Chevagny-in an extraordinary manner.

"The fellow had indeed a good heart," he thought to himself, "which even the miseries he is witness of in this living hell are unable to suppress. One would think that De Chevagny was his dearest friend, so overjoyed is he." And still, as he reflected thus, Bluet's grimaces and becks and nods continued.

"Réné Xavier Ru de Chevagny, Marquis de Chevagny," read out the King's Lieutenant from a paper in his hand, "the Viscomte d'Argenson, Judge and Examiner of his Majesty's fortresses, desires your presence."

"I-I have waited the summons long," the marquis said, with quiet dignity; "I am ready to obey it."

And he turned round to touch Bertie's hand in a temporary farewell, when again the voice of the King's Lieutenant was heard reading from the paper:

"Elphinston-baptismal name uncertain-captain of the Regiment of Picardy, formerly of the Regiment of Scots Dutch-"

"What!" exclaimed Elphinston, dazed by being summoned at last so unexpectedly, and also at the last description-"what!"

–"the Vicomte d'Argenson, Judge and Examiner of his Majesty's fortresses, desires your presence."

"I, too, am ready," he replied in a low voice.

"Avancez!" said the Lieutenant, and at the word the party left the calotte and descended the massive stairs, the officer with two turnkeys leading the way, while Bluet and another followed.

And as they went to the Hall of Judgment, Bertie whispered to the marquis:

"I begin to understand. I know now why I have been here so long. It was another Elphinston, not I, who served in the Scots Dutch-the Elphinston who eloped with the daughter of the Duc de Baufremont!"

CHAPTER XXIX

FREE

When the stairs had been descended, at the foot of which were several soldiers who, as ever, removed their hats and placed them before their faces so as not to observe the prisoners, they passed through a little door into a great court and, traversing this, entered what was known and served as the arsenal or armoury. There Bertie observed a number of gorgeously dressed footmen and coachmen seated about, whom he supposed to belong to the judges, as well as a number of exempts and several messengers of the Bastille, known to all Paris by the badge they wore-a brass plate, having on it an engraved club full of points and spikes, with round it the motto "Monstrorum Terror" – most of whom, perhaps from long habit, regarded the party very indifferently. Leaving this place behind, they traversed another court, and then, after the King's Lieutenant had struck three times on an iron-studded door, they were admitted to a large, stately hall well warmed and lighted. It was the hall known as the Salle de Justice.

At one end of the hall, seated in great padded chairs let into niches, were four judges clad in scarlet robes, with huge wigs upon their heads, while one, who was undoubtedly D'Argenson, wore above his wig a richly laced three-cornered hat, as a symbol that he represented the sovereign. At his feet sat his registrar, or secretary, with a long table before him covered with a great crimson cloth that hung down to the ground, and also with innumerable papers, while at either end of the table stood sergeants-at-arms with maces. In the midst of the court, or hall, near to these, was a railed-in space, within it two small wooden stools, and to these the sergeants motioned that both De Chevagny and Bertie should approach, while, as they did so, the registrar handed up to each of the judges papers which were copies of the interrogatories about to be administered. At another table, with some papers also before him, sat De Launey, shivering and shaking and smiling in exactly the same way that Bertie had seen him do more than two years ago. Poor wretch! smiles and shivers were alike to be soon over for him now; in another few months the worst form of paralysis was to end his life.

As De Chevagny and Bertie took their seats upon the stools in the inclosure, the judges half rose and bowed to them (a ceremony always observed, except when the worst class of détenus were brought before them), and, on their salutation being returned, D'Argenson, glancing down his paper of interrogatories, prepared to address De Chevagny, the first on his list. This judge, who sat as president, and was reported to work harder than any other twenty men in the French King's service, sitting, indeed, in the law courts during the whole of each day, and being able, consequently, to only make his examinations of the prisons at night, was a strange man to observe. His complexion was as swarthy as a mulatto's, his eyes enormously large and black, his eyebrows each as big as an ordinary man's moustache, while his reputation for austerity had spread through the whole kingdom. Yet he possessed also, in contradistinction to his appearance, a voice as soft and sweet as a girl's, or De Launey's own, and hands-one of which, covered with brilliants, generally lay extended on the desk before him-as white as marble.

"Monsieur the Marquis de Chevagny," he began now-while as he did so the old man rose from the stool and faced him as he leaned upon the rail-"Monsieur de Chevagny, you have been a resident in this fortress for a long period. I perceive you came here on the 30th of January, 1704," and the silvery tones ceased for a moment as though awaiting an answer.

"It is true," De Chevagny replied, "true." And he bent his head.

"The charge against you was the writing of a contumelious lampoon upon the then Marquise de la Vallière and holding her up to contempt and derision. For that the lettre de cachet concerning you was signed by-by a then illustrious personage. That letter was an open one, unlimited as to the continuance of its effect-"

"The charge was true," murmured the marquis, "the punishment cruel beyond all thought."

"Monsieur le Marquis," interposed the judge, while his voice sounded even sweeter, more silvery than before, "I must remind you of what doubtless in the passage of years you have forgotten: There must be no criticism here, no discussion of those who are, or once were, all-powerful. Monsieur, I represent the King's Majesty; let me beg of you to offend-unintentionally, no doubt-no more."

He paused a moment, and it seemed as if some bird had ceased to warble its innocent notes; then he continued:

"The family of La Vallière is now practically extinct. The King, in his sublime goodness, is therefore pleased to ordain that you shall no longer be asked to remain here. Monsieur le Marquis de Chevagny, permit me to congratulate you. You may depart at any time most convenient to you."

The old man raised his hand to his long white beard and stroked it thoughtfully for a moment; then he, in his clear aristocratic tones, replied:

"You congratulate me, monsieur, on what? On a wasted, ruined life, perhaps; a prison for forty-five years; an existence given me by God and taken away by man; a home desolated; a broken heart-nay, two, if not three, broken hearts; and all for what? A youthful folly, a joke made in the exuberance of a young man's spirit. Oh, monsieur, spare me your congratulations! If you were even born when I first came here, think, think of the passage of those years, think of what lives you have known, think of the use they have been put to, and then reflect on mine. Surely your congratulations are the last bitter drop."