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."

"Monsieur de Chevagny," replied the judge, "I must not argue with you. Yet one word I will say: I had no part in sending you here; my share is only to tell you that you are free." And he took up in his jewelled hand a fresh batch of papers, and, stooping forward, whispered something to the registrar.

As the old man tottered back to the stool he had risen from, that functionary said:

"Elphinston, captain of the Regiment of Picardy, formerly of the Regiment of Scots Dutch, answer to your name."

"My name," said Bertie, advancing to the rail and standing as the marquis had previously stood, "is Elphinston, and I am of the Regiment of Picardy. I never served in the Scots Dutch Regiment."

With an almost imperceptible start D'Argenson bent his dark, luminous eyes on him, as did all the other judges, who had sat like dead men in their seats, while De Launey, with the King's Lieutenant and the registrar, also cast surprised looks on him.

"You say that you were never in the regiment of Scots Dutch, monsieur?" asked D'Argenson, still holding the papers in his hand and glancing at them; "what, then, is your _nom de baptême?_"

"Bertie."

The judge glanced again at the papers, then he conferred for a moment with the other judges, and then spoke again:

"Pardon us our ignorance of your Scotch name, monsieur; but this name 'Bertie' we do not know it. Albert we know, but not Bertie. Is that the whole name, or a part of one--an abbreviation?"

"My name is Bertie, _tout court_."

The white hand of the judge rubbed his chin softly, and he said:

"You were never in the Scots Dutch Regiment? And, _par exemple_, you will perhaps also tell us if you are the husband of Mademoiselle de Baufremont, daughter of the duke of that name."

"I am not. I am the husband of no woman."

A visible stir went through the others in the _Salle de Justice_ at these words, while D'Argenson shrugged his shoulders. Then, sweetly as ever, he continued:

"There are many noble Scotch gentlemen serving his Majesty. Would it be known to you if there were any others of your name--your family name--in the army?"

"I know of one other," Bertie replied. "_He_ was in the Scots Dutch."

"Ha!" exclaimed D'Argenson. "And his first name, what is that?"

"Basil."

D'Argenson threw down his papers and for several minutes conferred again with the other judges; and during the time he did so Bertie could not but muse on how the Bastille and its accursed uses had been lent to one more crime, one more mistake that was in itself a crime. For that he had suffered for the man who was his namesake there could now be no doubt; the only wonder in his mind was that it had never occurred to him before, never dawned upon him that such was the case. And now he only prayed that the judges might never have it come to their knowledge that, innocently enough, he had rendered assistance to that other Elphinston.

"God knows," he mused, "that I have suffered sufficiently already by doing so; 'twas through that assistance that I lost my love; surely I shall not also have to suffer further; surely the Duke de Baufremont's vengeance will not be permitted to still fall heavily on me." And once more he prayed that his share in the transaction might not be known.

Then D'Argenson spoke again:

"_Monsieur le Capitaine_," he said, "your answers to my interrogatories appear to show that, by grave misfortune, you have been confused with another man. Such errors are always to be regretted; nay, more, when they have been made, it is always the custom of his Majesty--a most gracious sovereign!--to make atonement for them and to nobly recompense those who have been injured. I shall to-morrow take steps to ratify your statement: if I find it accurate, you may expect to go away from here in a very short time. His Majesty will sign your acquittance at once. You will be free."

"Sir," replied Bertie, "I might have been free two years and a half ago, might never have suffered this long misery--while much other misery might have also been spared to those whom I love and who love me--had this examination taken place when I was first brought here."

"Doubtless," D'Argenson replied coldly. "But the laws of France have their mode of procedure and cannot be altered for any case in particular. _Monsieur le Capitaine_, your examination is concluded," and turning to his brother judges, he said, as he rose:

"_Mes frères, la séance est terminée_."

Of what use was it, Bertie asked himself as he and De Chevagny were conducted back to the _calotte_, to rage or fret against this legal wall of adamant? As well hurl one's self against a rock and hope to make an impression on it. For a fault not his own, he had been forced to endure two years and more of miserable imprisonment, and now, by chance alone, he was likely to be set free.

Yet the very word "free" sent his blood dancing and tingling in his veins once more; it brought to him the happy hope of seeing his mother, his beloved Kate again. And when he saw her, there would be no further barrier between them; she, too, was free--free to become his wife. Then, at last, their long vexations would be over--at last--at last!

"Make yourselves as comfortable as you can, _mes enfants_," said Bluet to them when once more they were back in the _calotte_, "it will not be for long now. Meanwhile, to-morrow, I will see if I cannot snatch from that villainous cellarer a bottle of the best _vin de Brecquiny_ wherewith to celebrate your sortie. And I--though I am but a poor drinker at best--will drink to your happy restoration to your friends and families."

As the turnkey had said, so it happened. From the next morning their meals were improved; the best wine was served to them; everything gave promise that their imprisonment was at an end. One morning--which was the third day from their examination by D'Argenson--Bluet, accompanied by another turnkey, came in, bearing a large basket, in which was a quantity of new linen, with some ruffles and lace for both of them. Then, next, the tailor was brought in to prepare a plain but serviceable suit for the marquis, and also to repair Bertie's clothes, his suit being, though much used, still wearable. And, to complete all, Bluet arrived on another morning with the necessary implements for cutting and trimming their hair and beards, which, with the exception of the attentions they had been able to render each other with a rusty pair of scissors they had discovered imbedded in the filth of the floor, had not been done at all since the younger prisoner had been there.

"_Avec ça!_" exclaimed their cheerful janitor, "messieurs will go forth into the world again as though to a _fête_ or a wedding. _Ma foi!_ Monsieur le Marquis, you look not fifty years of age. You will both do very well. Ah, but the brave day is at hand!"

And at last it came. One evening, a week now after the judge had pronounced that the Marquis de Chevagny might go back to life, and had said that the Captain Elphinston might cherish hopes of doing so, the King's Lieutenant again made his appearance in the _calotte_, unaccompanied this time by anyone but Bluet, for the purpose of unbarring the doors.

"Messieurs," he said, "have the goodness to accompany me to the _Salle de Justice_. The commissary attends you to hand to you your _permission de sortie_. You will depart to-morrow, if it so pleases you."

Rising, they followed him through all the passages and courts as before, and arrived at the great hall. Here they observed that the judges were not again present, but in their place, and seated at the scarlet-draped table of the judges' registrar was the commissary, a little, old, wizened man, who bowed to them as they entered.

"Be seated, I beg," he said, motioning them to two chairs placed in front of him--two _fauteuils_ very different in appearance and comfort from the stools that had previously been accorded them; and when they had done so, he instantly read from two papers before him:

"Réné Xavier Ru de Chevagny, Marquis de Chevagny," he began; "his Majesty, King Louis XV, graciously accords you this his permission to depart out of this fortress, the Bastille, from this present moment. This permission I now hand to you as a certificate of his Majesty's gracious goodness." Here he held the paper out over the table to the old man, who took it from him without uttering one word. Then the commissary continued: "And in consideration of your having been unable to attend to your own interests, properties, and estates of late, his Majesty ordains that you may draw upon the captain of this his fortress, Monsieur Jourdan de Launey, for a sum not exceeding fifty _Louis d'ors_, for your present expenses, to be by you recouped later on."

"I--I want nothing," De Chevagny began, when, as he did so, his eye fell upon Bluet standing near and behind the King's Lieutenant, and remembering all the fellow's kindness to him--kindness which he had never been under any obligation to show he ceased what he was saying; while the commissary continued:

"From this moment you are at liberty to depart. Monsieur le Marquis you will consult your own pleasure as to when you do so."

Then turning to Bertie and addressing him, he again read out the rigmarole about "his Majesty's gracious goodness," and handed to him his certificate of freedom. And also he informed him that he, too, could draw on De Launey for fifty _Louis d'ors_, to be recorded later on.

"If, monsieur," Bertie exclaimed, however, at this, "I draw them, I know not how they are ever to be refunded. I was an officer in the French King's army when I was brought here. I can scarcely suppose I am one now. When I quit this prison I am as like as not to be a beggar in the streets. This incarceration has stolen my life from me for two years; now I am free, its effect will be to deprive me of the means whereby to live in the future."

"_Monsieur le Capitaine_, I think not. I am authorized to tell you that a commission in his Majesty's service will still be provided for you, in consequence of your residence here being due to a slight mistake."

"So be it," said Bertie; "I rejoice to hear that so much justice will be done to me." Yet, as he spoke, he took a vow that never more would he serve the French King, never more draw sword for a country in which such errors could happen as that which had imprisoned him for those two years.

"Now," said the commissary, "you must please to sign these papers, and to swear upon your honours that you will neither reveal, when outside this fortress, any of the situations of the various chambers, apartments, towers, halls, or courts of which you have obtained any knowledge, nor the names of any other persons here with which you have become acquainted in any way. Also you must, upon your honours, state that you carry no messages from anyone within this fortress to anyone whatsoever outside of it, either written or verbal. And when you do go forth at the time it shall please you, you will also sign another paper stating that you have been deprived of nothing, neither money, clothes, jewellery, nor trinkets of which you were in possession when you arrived."

De Chevagny shrugged his shoulders as he answered:

"I may sign with safety. I have no recollection of anything I had about me when I came here in the year 1704. I know not what I had. And what matters it? What matters it?"

"As for me," said Elphinston, "I had but a few gold pieces in my purse when I came here, and they have been exhausted long ago in payment for my bed. There can be nothing left; and if there is, I want it not."

That night, however, both he and De Chevagny decided to draw each upon De Launey for ten _Louis d'ors_, with which to reward the faithful Bluet, and also--for such was the custom even in this hateful place-to give a treat to the turnkeys. So, ere they slept for the last time in their miserable chamber, these men were called in, and, bringing with them various sorts of wine, chocolate, pasties, and ratafias, were rewarded also with pieces of money, while they drank to the health of those whom they termed the "parting guests."

One other had, however, to be taken a sad farewell of--one whom there was no likelihood of their ever meeting again in this world--the unhappy Genevese, Falmy. At daybreak Bertie was at the window looking for him, and a few moments later he appeared at his; and the tears streamed down the former's eyes so as almost to blind him as for the last time he sent his message across to the opposite tower. "Farewell! I leave with De Chevagny," he signalled. "God ever bless you, and may He at last release you! Is there no message for anyone outside?" For, in spite of the promise he had given to take none from any prisoner, he felt absolved from it when he thought of the bitter agony of those incarcerated still. Indeed, such was the feeling of all who went forth from that living death.

But Falmy shook his head sadly; then, listlessly, as though hopeless and heartbroken, he signalled back, "None; I have no friends. If I ever had any, they are dead or have forgotten me. Farewell!" and, with a look upon his face that Bertie never forgot, he left the window.

Down through the corridors and passages they passed, away through the _corps de garde_, with, for the last time, their laced hats held before their faces, until they reached the wicket and so to the great gates which opened to admit their exit. And a moment later, as the great clock struck nine above their heads, they stood outside the prison walls.[Note D] They were free!