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:

"Whose ambition I thwarted! One who is powerful--the friend of the King! Oh, 'tis impossible, impossible! Some awful mistake has been made. I know no one such as that. No one."

Then, clasping his hands together, while his voice rang out clear and distinct in that vaulted chapel, he exclaimed, "For God's sake, help me in this! For God's sake, tell me to whom you refer!"

"Hush!" said the other. "Hush! They are coming back. And as for the name, it must never pass my lips. If the recollection of your own actions cannot help you now, I can do no more;" and, seeing the turnkeys at the door, he said in his usual tones, "Monsieur, follow me to your new apartment."

Dazed with what he had heard, Elphinston obeyed him, and slowly they went through the gloomy passages and up more stairs through iron-plated doors, until they stood at the one which opened into the _calotte_ of the tower above the chapel--so called because, being the topmost chamber in the roof, it resembled a _calotte_, or fool's cap, or extinguisher.

"Messieurs," said the Lieutenant to the inmates of the room when the door had been unlocked and unbarred, "allow me to present to you a comrade. Let me trust you will be agreeable to each other. Monsieur de Chevagny, you are the father of the house; I commit him to you." Then, glancing over to a bed in the corner, on which a dark-haired man lay sleeping with his face turned to the wall, the Lieutenant shrugged his shoulders and said, "_Mon Dieu! le fou_ sleeps heavily. Well, we need not disturb him. No presentations are necessary with him."

The man addressed as Chevagny--whom Bertie could not but regard with interest, despite the whirl in which his brain was at the strange, inexplicable revelations of the Lieutenant--rose with courtesy from a chair as his name was mentioned, and, coming towards Bertie, held out a thin hand. His hair was snow-white and of great length, while his face, partly from age and partly, perhaps, from long confinement, was shrivelled and wan. What his clothes might have originally been it was impossible to guess; now they were a mass of rags and tatters, patched in some places, in others hanging in shreds. Round his neck he wore for a cravat the sleeve of an old shirt; while the soles of his shoes, which were full of holes, were joined to the upper parts by pieces of pack thread. All over his face there grew a great beard as white as the hair on his head, and this may have helped to keep him warm, especially as over his breast it was tucked inside a shirt that was almost black from long wear. Yet, with all this ragged misery, those features of his face which his hair and beard allowed to be seen were refined and elegant, were the features of a well-born man.

"Sir," he said to Bertie as he held out his hand, "what there is here I welcome you to, and I can only pray that it may not be your lot to grow as familiar with this place as I have become. For now--now--" and Bertie could see his old lips tremble as he spoke, "this place has grown through my unhappiness to be the only spot on earth that I know of--my only home."

"Monsieur le Marquis," said Bertie, "for your greeting, sad as it is and sad as is the spot where we meet, I thank you. So long as I am here--so long!--I shall respect and pity you."

He had taken no heed of the figure on the bed while he was speaking, having, indeed, his back turned to it, but now it forced him to observe it.

For, as he spoke for the first time, that figure--its wild eyes staring as though about to start from its head, and its hands opening and shutting convulsively--was kneeling on the bed, muttering, whining, gasping behind him.

And, turning round suddenly and seeing its contortions and its awful maniacal fear, Bertie reeled back across the _calotte_, exclaiming:

"My God! Fordingbridge! Face to face at last!"