Free!

On the third night after my visit to the Council Chamber I was awakened from a sound sleep by some one shaking my arm. Looking up and rubbing my eyes, I beheld the gaoler with a lantern in his hand bending over me.

“Rise, monsieur, and dress quickly,” said he.

“Who wants me at this time of night?” I asked.

“I do not know, monsieur. I have my orders, and the soldiers are waiting at the foot of the stairs. But courage, monsieur!”

The tone in which the man spoke made me shiver. It was plain that he expected the worst, and I immediately remembered the councillor’s threats. My heart beat quickly at the thought of the dreaded torture chamber, and my fingers trembled as I fastened my clothes.

“Am I to be put on the rack?” I asked, but the gaoler, shaking his held slowly, replied that he knew nothing.

“An officer of police brought an order signed by the Governor, but he would answer no questions. If it should be so, confess everything, monsieur. You are very young, and the rack ah!”

“Thanks, my friend, though I am sorry your advice will not help me. I have already told the truth, and they would not believe it.”

“Say what they wish, monsieur! Anything to escape the torture! I have been in the chamber once, and it was horrible for a strong man even to look on. And they are sure to get what they want in the end.”

“At all events I will bear up as long as I can!”

“It is useless, monsieur, useless, I assure you,” said he, as I finished dressing.

We left the room, and, descending the stairway, found the soldiers drawn up at the bottom.

“Albert de Lalande!” exclaimed their officer, and the next minute I was walking in the midst of my escort to the court, where a carriage stood in waiting.

“Enter, monsieur,” said the officer, who himself followed, while the troopers mounted their horses.

I leaned my head against the back of the coach in a state of both wonder and relief. Whatever else happened it seemed that I was not to be taken to the torture chamber. The night was dark, but I could tell that we were leaving the Bastille. Where were we going? I addressed myself to the officer, but received only a curt “Silence!” in reply.

Did they intend to execute me without further trial? It might be so more than one prisoner had been hurried from the Bastille in the darkness for that purpose. Might was right in those days, and justice stood a poor chance of getting itself heard.

I could not discover in what direction we drove, but the journey was long and apparently roundabout, perhaps in order to avoid attention. The officer sat rigidly upright, with his sword drawn, keeping keen watch and ward as if I had been a most desperate criminal. There was, however, small chance of escape, even if I could overpower my guard. The soldiers rode on each side of the coach, and I should have been cut down instantly.

At last the carriage stopped, the officer opened the door and ordered me to descend. We had halted in front of a large building, which at first I failed to recognise. Several armed men stood on the top-most step.

“At least the place isn’t a prison!” I concluded, as the officer hurried me to the entrance and along the corridor, while two of the gentlemen in waiting followed close behind.

Nearly at the end, and on our right hand, was a door hung with rich tapestry. Pushing the curtains aside, the officer knocked softly, and then ushered me into a large apartment furnished in the most sumptuous and magnificent manner.

“Albert de Lalande, your Highness!” he announced, and I looked quickly at the man who stood up to receive me.

This, then, must be the renowned Conde who had restored lustre to the French arms, though I held that the country had amply repaid the brilliant soldier for his skill and valour. I was also one of those who believed that winning a battle did not place a man above the laws, nor give him the right to ride rough-shod over his fellows. Still, Conde was a brilliant general, and certainly second to none save Turenne; while there were not wanting numerous flatterers who ranked the prince first.

A thin man of average height it was who stood before me; firmly set, well-proportioned and muscular. The Bourbon type was strongly marked in this member of the family thick lips, large mouth, high and prominent cheek-bones. He possessed a good brow, betokening intelligence, and sharp, keen, blue eyes that pierced through me.

“Why, monsieur the assassin is scarcely more than a boy!” he exclaimed with a sneering laugh.

“I am old enough not to be frightened, even by Louis de Bourbon!” said I, angry at his taunt.

“Parbleu! These are brave words from a prisoner of the Bastille! The Governor feeds you too well! But come, I have several questions to put. Why did you try to kill me?”

“I did not try, your Highness! At the time of the attack I was a mile away, shut up in a room and well guarded.”

“You seem fond of prison,” he said, and I felt that he did not believe a word of my story.

“I had no choice in the matter, your Highness.”

Conde looked me straight in the face, and I met his gaze without flinching.

“You look like an honest lad,” he exclaimed grudgingly, “but the evidence against you is strong. Come, tell me everything, and I will promise you a pardon beforehand. Was it Mazarin who urged you on?”

“I have not heard from the Cardinal for months, monsieur. If the plot was his work, he did not take me into his confidence. But I think, monsieur, that your enemies are nearer home.”

“How? No one in Paris but De Retz would plan such a deed.”

“The Abbe is a dangerous enemy, your Highness.”

“No,” said Conde, looking puzzled, “it could not have been De Retz. He and his henchman, De Lalande your cousin by the way were with me five minutes after the pistol was fired. I wish you would trust me.”

“You will laugh at my suspicions, and the explanation will not benefit me.”

“Ma foi! I have learned to consider nothing strange in this citizen squabble. Come, speak as a friend, and I promise on my honour not to repeat your words.”

I hardly knew what to do. I had no wish to injure either Henri or Pillot, but on the other hand, my own life was in danger, and finally I resolved to relate the story with as little mention of names as possible.

Conde listened attentively, stopping me now and then to ask some searching question, and evidently considerably puzzled by the whole affair.

“If this be true,” said he at last, “it seems that Mazarin had nothing to do with the plot. But there is one point which still requires explanation. If you were not there, how could the mob have followed you to the house?”

“They did not follow me, but were led by two of my enemies.”

“Who were they?”

“One was Baron Maubranne dressed as a charcoal-burner, and him I killed.”

“Who was the other?”

“M. Peleton, disguised as a mason. He kept out of my way, the coward!”

“Corbleu!” exclaimed Conde, laughing, “that showed his discretion. Now, M. de Lalande, I am going to think over this extraordinary story. Meanwhile you must return to the Bastille. It is not exactly a pleasant residence, but it is above all things safe. True, the Governor will keep out your friends, but I will take care that he does not admit your enemies. By the way, who is this M. Beauchamp of whom you have spoken?”

“An officer in the household of the Duke of Orleans.”

“Ah, well, I shall be visiting the Luxembourg in a day or two, and I may meet him.”

Summoning the officer, who had remained on guard just inside the door, he directed that I should be driven back to the Bastille without delay; and thus my night adventure ended.

It was early morning when we reached the famous prison, but my gaoler received me with a cheerful smile.

“I hope monsieur’s journey has proved a pleasant one,” said he, for, of course, he had watched the departure of the carriage.

“It has not been amiss,” I answered, “and it may help to prove my innocence. At any rate, it was more agreeable than a visit to the torture chamber,” and I began to undress.

The interview with Conde had raised my spirits, and I felt more cheerful than at any time since my arrest. Although doubtful at first, he was evidently impressed by my story, and for his own sake would endeavour to unravel the mystery. I had, however, to exercise considerable patience. Another week passed wearily enough, and during the whole of that time no whisper reached me from the outside world. I was left entirely to my imagination, and even Gaston of Orleans could not have changed his mind as many times as I did during that period.

At one moment I felt sure of freedom; the next I listened to the roar of the hungry mob assembled to witness my execution. I turned hot and cold at every sound; now fancying the gaoler was coming to set me at liberty, again that he was bringing news of my condemnation.

One morning after breakfast I was sitting daydreaming as usual, when the door was opened, and the turnkey requested me to finish dressing and follow him.

“What is it now?” I inquired anxiously.

“An order to attend the Council Chamber, monsieur.”

“Am I to receive my freedom?”

“I cannot tell, but there are no soldiers below, which is not a bad sign.”

I knew my way by now, and followed my gaoler briskly down the staircase to the chamber. The four councillors were there, standing together, and near them was Conde himself.

“Well, M. de Lalande, did you expect to see me again?” he asked.

“I hoped to do so, your Highness.”

“Then you do not fear my discoveries? Well, I have inquired into your story, and am inclined to believe you spoke the truth. For one thing, M. Peleton has disappeared.”

“Then he has received a warning, your Highness.”

“That is possible, as he may know too much. Still, without his evidence I cannot probe to the bottom of this affair. Now I am going to make you a proposal. If I set you at liberty, will you find this M. Peleton and bring him to me? His arrest is necessary, you understand, in order to clear your own character.”

“Then I shall be the more anxious to discover him, your Highness.”

“Very well; and remember, it must be done without noise or fuss, by yourself and your friends. If my fresh suspicions are correct, he has powerful patrons whom I have no desire to ruffle for the present. So it must be your private affair, and you take all the risks.”

“I will do that willingly.”

“So I expected,” said he, laughing, and at once directed the weazened councillor to make out my paper of discharge. Having fulfilled certain formalities, I was escorted beyond the five gates and set at liberty.

It was strange what an unfamiliar aspect the streets of the city at first bore. I stood for a time perplexed by the change from the gloomy Bastille, bewildered by the noise of the traffic, and scarcely knowing which direction to take. Wandering on aimlessly, I at length found myself on the Quai Henry IV., and, keeping steadily along past the Hotel de Ville, reached the head of the Pont Neuf. Turning off here, I was soon in the familiar net-work of streets near the Palais Royal, and presently entered the Rue des Catonnes.

My landlord, who would hardly have raised an eyebrow in the midst of an earthquake, made no comment on my long absence, but, merely observing that monsieur would perhaps like something to eat, disappeared.

Going to my room, I removed my sword, which had been returned to me on leaving the Bastille, and sat down. In a short time my worthy host brought some food, for which I was really grateful, and I asked cheerfully if any one had called at the house to inquire for me.

“A soldier of the Queen’s Guards who comes every evening, monsieur. He is a foreigner, I think, he speaks French so badly.”

“Ah, an Englishman, a fine fellow, and my very good friend.”

“There is also a young cavalier who comes from the Luxembourg to inquire if you have returned. He it was who informed me that monsieur had gone into the country.”

“And they come every evening?”

“Without fail, monsieur.”

“Then be sure to send them up the instant they arrive.”

About six o’clock, observing Raoul approach the house, I withdrew quickly from the window, so that he might be taken the more completely by surprise. Suddenly the footsteps ceased, and I heard my friend putting his question to the landlord. The answer was not distinguishable, but it produced a remarkable effect. There was a rush and a clatter on the stairs, the door of my room was opened quickly, and Raoul threw himself into my arms.

“Albert,” he cried, “I began to fear we should never see you again. You are too venturesome, my dear fellow. Listen! What is that? Ah! here is your English friend, and mine, too, now. He is a splendid fellow.”

“Back again, my friend!” cried John Humphreys, as he entered the room. “You have had a long holiday this time.”

“Longer than was agreeable,” I answered, laughing, “but sit down and tell me the news; I am dying with curiosity.”

“So are we,” observed Raoul; “we want to know all that has happened to you.”

“Didn’t the story get abroad?”

“Only a little. We heard you were suspected of leading the attack on Conde. In fact, there were people who swore they saw you fire, though, naturally, I knew that was rubbish.”

“Did you guess the truth?”

“Yes, and told Humphreys here. But I have not cried it from the housetops.”

“You were wise; it is an affair that requires delicate handling,” and I repeated the story of my adventures, from my disappearance to the moment of my being liberated from the Bastille.

“The plot is no mystery to us,” said Raoul thoughtfully, “but it will be difficult to prove. We have not the slightest doubt that your cousin Henri fired the pistol.”

“Is he still in Paris?” I asked curiously.

“Yes, and goes about quite openly with De Retz.”

“Why doesn’t Conde arrest him?” asked Humphreys, who was not in the habit of beating about the bush.

“Henri de Lalande has played his game far too cleverly,” laughed Raoul, “you may depend that his share in the plot was known only to himself and De Retz.”

“But,” said I, “the instructions for trapping me must have been given by him.”

“There you are wrong. The man Francois has been examined, and he knows nothing of your cousin. He was employed and paid by Peleton, who was wise enough to mention no names.”

“Peleton is an arrant coward, and a traitor to boot.”

“Just so,” said Raoul, “and were he caught the whole secret would be laid bare. But he has vanished.”

“And it is my business to find him; I have promised Conde to do so, though without implicating him, and, besides, I want to clear my own name. Is he likely to have left Paris?”

Raoul went to the door to make sure that no one was listening, and coming back, said quietly, “I will tell you my idea. Everything depends on Peleton, and De Retz is aware that he would betray his dearest friend for a hundred pistoles. Do you follow me?”

“Perfectly,” said I impatiently, “go on.”

“As soon as Conde got on the right track, Peleton disappeared and has not been seen since. Now if he were a free man, he would long before this have made a bargain with Conde in order to preserve his own skin.”

“Do you think ” I began in horror, but Raoul interrupted me, saying, “No, no, not as bad as that. I simply mean they are holding him a prisoner till the affair has blown over. De Retz is making a hard fight with Conde, and if the prince is beaten, why, then Peleton can talk as much as he likes. Of course for your own sake you must try to unearth him, and I will help in the search.”

“So will I,” exclaimed Humphreys, “though I shall be of little use unless it comes to fighting.”

“There may be enough and to spare of that,” said Raoul, “if Henri de Lalande is the fellow’s gaoler. He may be a rogue, but he is a fearless one.”

Raoul’s theory was, certainly, mere guess-work, but the more we discussed it the more likely it appeared to be correct. Peleton was a tricky fellow, and I understood my cousin too well to believe that he would allow him to be at large.

“If Peleton’s hiding-place is to be discovered we must watch Henri,” I suggested at length, and the others agreed.

“There is one thing I can do,” remarked Raoul. “The Duke of Orleans has command of the gates, and I can request the officers on duty to watch for Peleton. I shall leave Conde’s name out, and make it a personal favour.”

“Meanwhile Humphreys and I will take a walk in the neighbourhood of Notre Dame. We may possibly meet Henri on his way to visit the Abbe.”

“Don’t run too far into danger; the Abbé’s parishioners are not the most gentle of citizens.”

The Englishman laughed lightly, and tapped his sword as if to say, “This will prevent them from being too saucy.”

We went down into the street, and Raoul, promising to return the next evening, departed on his errand, while Humphreys and I turned in the direction of the cathedral. The people, as usual, were in a high state of excitement, but we met with no adventure worth relating, and unfortunately saw nothing of my cousin.

“Never mind,” said Humphreys, “the luck doesn’t always come at the first throw.”

Next morning I paid a hurried visit to the Rue Crillon, where I received a warm greeting from the ladies, who had already heard of my release.

“At first the prince thought you were guilty,” exclaimed Madame Coutance. “It was stupid of him, but then, appearances were against you.”

“They certainly were,” said I, “and even now there are people who imagine I had a share in the plot.”

“Not those in high quarters. They know the truth, but cannot prove it. By the way, had you come last night you would have met your cousin.”

“It is so long since I saw him that he is quite a stranger. Did he inquire for me?”

“Yes,” replied Marie, “and he was delighted to learn that you were free of the Bastille. At least, he said so,” and she looked at me with a meaning smile.

It was apparent that both Marie and her aunt guessed the truth, but the subject was a delicate one, and they did not dwell on it; only, as I was leaving, Madame Coutance whispered, “Do not forget that the street as well as the Bastille has its dangers.”

“Thank you for the warning,” I answered, “but I shall be more wary in future.”

The rest of the day I spent in prowling about the city, in asking questions here and there, and in watching sharply for either Pillot or my cousin, but the search proved fruitless, and towards the end of the afternoon I returned to my rooms, jaded and weary.