CHAPTER XVII.

Gabrielle had found a temporary asylum at the house of Robert Lindet, the lawyer. Robert lived in a small villa, with his brother Peter, on the side of the road to Brionne and Rouen. The house stood back from the dusty highway, with a long strip of garden before it, and a high wall completely shutting it off from the road. A row of trees occupied one side of the garden, ending in a green ivy-covered arbour, in which no one ever sat, as it occupied an angle in the high walls, and commanded no view, and was by its position excluded from air and light.

The garden was poor. Two little patches of flowers--larkspur and escholtzia and white lilies--were nearly the only ones that grew in it; the two former sowed themselves, and the latter remained where it had been planted in Robert’s youth. The rest of the garden was turf. On it stood a hutch of white rabbits with black noses, which were constantly escaping over the garden and destroying the flowers. The house front consisted of two parts, the portion occupied by the lawyer and his brother, and that given over to the cook and kitchen, which latter portion was an incongruous adjunct to the trim little house. The kitchen was on the ground-floor, and a ladder staircase in the open air gave access to the bedroom above.

The house--little altered--is at present the abode of the Chaplain to the Convent of the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament.

The lower rooms of the house being turned into offices, the brothers were wont, in cold weather, to sit over the fire in the kitchen, where Gabrielle presided.

Gabrielle was not happy. That last piercing cry of her protectress and friend, Madame Berthier, had entered her heart, and stuck there like a barbed arrow. As she lay awake at night, she thought of the huge prison, dark and cold, down whose passages no sunbeams streamed, and of the poor lady alone there, in solitude and despair. During the day she thought of her,--of the cold she must feel in her cell, of the deprivation of scenes of beauty and life. ‘I ought to do something for her, but what can I do!’ She asked those who knew anything about Paris whether there would be a possibility of her obtaining admission to the Bastille, to wait upon the prisoner, but they all replied with a shake of the head.

On March 25th, Etienne Percenez was sitting in the kitchen with the brothers Lindet, whilst Gabrielle washed dishes and forks and spoons at the sink in the window.

The conversation had run upon the political movements of the day, the abuses needing correction, the rights of the people which required acknowledgment. Gabrielle had listened without much interest, and the names of Necker, Artois, Sartines, De Brienne, &c., had entered her ear without attracting her attention, when all at once it was arrested by a remark of the colporteur:

‘The Bastille and the lettres-de-cachet! Have they been protested against?’

‘The time has not come,’ said Robert Lindet; ‘our cahiers mention grievances of which we are personally cognizant. When the States-general meet, then every nook and cranny of the old _régime_ will be searched and swept out.’

‘What can be more iniquitous than the lettre-de-cachet?’ asked Percenez; ‘the king gives blank forms for any one to fill in, and thus lives and liberties are sacrificed without trial. Saint-Florentin gave away fifty-thousand. What became of these blank orders of imprisonment? They were matters of traffic; fathers were shut up by their sons, husbands by their wives; Government clerks, their mistresses, and the friends of the mistresses,--any pretty woman of easy virtue inconvenienced by a strait-laced husband or father or mother, with a little civility, flattery, money, could get these terrible orders by which to bury those they desired to get rid of.’

‘And sometimes,’ said Robert, ‘the Bastille was an easy payment of a State debt. The Baron and Baroness Beausoleil spent their fortune and their time in opening valuable mines. When all their wealth was gone, they applied to Richelieu for payment, or at least a recognition of their services. The recognition was accorded them. They were shut up for life in the Bastille, apart from one another, and separated for ever from their children!’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Peter; ‘this is too bad. You know that the king had abolished these lettres-de-cachet. Why do you rake up old grievances which are long dead?’

‘Dead grievances!’ said Stephen Percenez; ‘you forget, Monsieur Pierre, they are only asleep, not dead. It is true Louis XVI has forbidden the incarceration of any one at the request of their families, without a well-grounded reason. But who is to be judge of the soundness of the reason? And who forced him to decree that?--Madame Legros.’

‘Madame Legros!’ said Gabrielle, coming forward; ‘tell me, who was she?’

‘Did you never hear of Latude?’ asked Percenez.

‘Never,’ answered Gabrielle. ‘Was he a prisoner?’

‘Yes, for thirty-four years in Bicêtre and the Bastille, thrown into the worst dungeons, by the spite of a woman--a harlot, Madame de Pompadour. He wrote his appeals for mercy, and pardon for crimes he had never committed, on rags, in his own blood; then they buried him in holes underground without light, where he spent long years in domesticating rats. Once a memorial addressed to some philanthropist or other--one memorial out of a hundred, was lost by a drunken jailer--a woman picked it up. That woman was a poor mercer, who sat stitching in her shop door. She picked up the fluttering sheet and read it, and resolved to liberate the miserable sufferer.’

Gabrielle bent forward, with her eyes fixed on the speaker.

‘What did she do?’ she asked, eagerly.

‘What did she not do?’ returned Étienne Percenez; ‘she worried every great man to whom she could obtain access with her story of the wrongs of Latude, and his sufferings in prison. She consecrated her life to his. All kinds of misfortune beset her, but she held firmly to her cause. Her husband remonstrated with her--he called her enthusiasm folly, for her business failed, as well it might, when her time was spent in seeking audiences with great Lords and high Churchmen, and when her attention was fixed on something other than caps and gowns. Her father died, then her mother. Slanderous tales were raised about her: it was asserted that she was the mistress of the prisoner, for whose liberation she laboured, and sacrificed all. The police threatened her; but she remained invincible. The story of Latude’s sufferings and of Madame Legros’ self-devotion spread through France, whispered from one to another. In the depths of winter, on foot, far advanced in pregnancy, the brave woman set out for Versailles, resolved to appeal at head-quarters. She found a femme de chambre inclined to take her memorial to the queen, but an abbé passing snatched it from her hand, and tore it up, bidding her not attempt to meddle. Cardinal de Rohan--he, you know, who was concerned in the affair of the necklace--was good-natured, and he endeavoured to move Louis XVI to pardon Latude--pardon him for what? for having in some way caused annoyance to his grandfather’s mistress; in what way?--nobody knows. Three times the king refused to pardon and liberate this man whose life had been wasted in a prison. At last, in 1784, Madame Legros had so worked on public opinion, that the king was forced to release him. You see what woman can do!’

Gabrielle raised her eyes and hands to heaven.

‘May God enable me to do the same for Madame Berthier!’ she cried.

‘There now, Étienne,’ said Robert, with a curl of the lip; ‘you have applied a match to a barrel of gunpowder.’

‘Ah! if it were to blow down the walls of the Bastille!’ said the pedlar, shaking his brown head.

‘Dear friend,’ said the girl, laying her hand on Percenez’ arm; ‘she who saved me in my hour of deepest need, she who stood between me and ruin, is now in that awful place. Her last cry was to me to save her. Tell me, what can I do?’

‘Nothing, absolutely nothing, except washing up dishes,’ answered Robert Lindet.

She did not attend to him, but looked straight into Percenez’ eyes. The girl was so beautiful, so earnest and enthusiastic, that the colporteur gazed on her with admiration, and did not answer.

‘I must do something,’ she proceeded to say; ‘I hear her voice calling me, night and day. That cry of “Gabrielle, save me!” haunts me. I am tortured with inactivity.’

‘My good girl,’ Robert observed, ‘there is not the slightest occasion for inactivity. There are the floors to be scoured, and the cobwebs to be brushed away, and the dishes to be washed.’

‘Good, kind master!’ cried the girl, turning to him; ‘you have received me when I was homeless. But did I not tell you that I could not remain in your service? I warned you that I had something to do that must be done----’

‘Fudge!’ said the lawyer. ‘You women are highflown, crazy creatures. You can do nothing for Madame Berthier; content yourself with the certainty of that, and stick to your kitchen-work, or, if you like it better, feed the rabbits.’

Percenez smiled. A smile on his rugged brown countenance was rare, and it had meaning whenever it appeared.

‘Excuse me, M. Lindet,’ he said; ‘I have faith in enthusiasm. Before that every barrier goes down. It is absolutely unconquerable.’

‘Enthusiasm is faith run to extravagance,’ answered the lawyer. ‘Enthusiasm is good for a dash, but it is not fit for continuous work. Enthusiasm would level a mountain, but it would never reconstruct it.’

‘Hark!’ exclaimed Peter, holding up his finger.

The others were silent and listened. They heard the bells of S. Cross pealing merrily.

‘What can be the occasion?’ asked Percenez.

Peter took his pipe out of his mouth, and walked slowly into the garden. Robert and Stephen followed him. From the high stone wall the clamour of the bells was echoed noisily.

‘It is very odd,’ said Robert; ‘what can be the reason?’

At that moment the garden-door opened, and M. Lamy, one of the curates (_vicaires_) of Bernay, rushed in, his face beaming with pleasure.

‘Well! what is the news?’ asked Percenez.

‘The best, the very best of news,’ answered the priest. ‘M. Thomas Lindet is elected delegate of the clergy to the Estates-general.’

‘An enthusiast,’ said Robert, with a smile aside to Percenez.

‘Ah! M. Robert, and it is just his enthusiasm which has taken him ahead of all the rest of the class, and turned him into a delegate.’

Whilst Robert and Peter talked with M. Lamy, the little brown colporteur turned back to the kitchen, and said to Gabrielle: ‘Well, what about your protectress?’

‘My friend,’ answered Gabrielle, earnestly and vehemently; ‘I shall go to Paris, if I go on foot, and I shall see what can be done. I will implore the queen on my knees to use her influence to obtain the release of Madame Berthier.’

‘You forget; that lady is not shut up as a political offender, but because she is insane.’

‘I will do what I can,’ answered the girl, simply. ‘She has no one else to assist her--no one else to speak for her.’

‘You are only a peasant-girl.’

‘Well! what was Madame Legros?’

‘Are you resolved?’

She put her hand on her heart.

‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I have no rest here. I shall have no rest till I have done my utmost.’

‘Paris is a dangerous place for a young and pretty maiden.’

‘Ah! Monsieur Étienne, the good God, who raised up a protectress for me in my need before, will deliver me in any future peril.’

‘What have you to live upon in Paris?’

‘I do not know.’

‘You must bear in mind that great distress exists there, that money is scarce and provisions are dear.’

‘God will provide.’

‘He will provide if He calls you there, not otherwise.’

‘Is it not His call that I hear now?’ asked the girl, her face brightening with enthusiasm. ‘My friend, my father’s friend, listen to me. There is a something within me, I cannot tell you what it is, which draws me from this place after my dear, unfortunate madame. Only yesterday I was walking in the wood above La Couture. I went to pray at a crucifix which I well know, for it was there that M. Lindet first stood my champion against him whom I will not name. I prayed there--I cannot tell you for how long, and I asked for a sign--a sign what I was to do.’ She paused timidly, dropped her eyes, and continued in a whisper: ‘Whilst I was on my knees, all on an instant I felt something leap upon my shoulder.’

‘Well, child, what was it?’ asked Percenez with a smile.

‘It was Madame Berthier’s yellow cat, it looked so lean and neglected, and its yellow dye was nearly worn off it. It knew me, for it rubbed its head against my cheek.’

‘Nonsense, Gabrielle, do you call _that_ a sign?’

‘Yes, Monsieur Étienne, it was a sign to me. It would not have been so to anyone else, may be, but I know what that cat was to the poor lady, I know what she suffers now in being separated from it; and, if it were only to restore her cat to her, I would walk barefoot all the way to Paris.’

‘I suspect the only success you will meet with will be that.’

‘Well, and that will be something.’

‘You are a resolute girl.’

‘Monsieur Étienne, I _must_ go.’

‘Why so?’

‘If I did not go, I should die.’

The little brown man looked fixedly at her, and then said:

‘Gabrielle, I have known you from a little girl. I am going to Paris. Like you, I _must_ go. I am fixed with a desire to see the working out of this great problem, the States-General. Gabrielle! the French people are like your Madame Berthier, chained and in prison. I do not know whether my feeble voice will avail to effect their release. You do not know whether yours will liberate one individual out of that great suffering family. Well! we go in hope, vague may be, but earnest, and resolved to do our best. We shall go together.’

‘What do you say, monsieur?’

‘I will go and visit my sister, Madame Deschwanden, and shall take you with me. We shall see what takes place.’

‘You will help me to get to Paris?’

‘Yes, I will.’

Miaw! The yellow cat, which had been asleep in a corner, was now wide awake, and at a bound had reached Gabrielle’s shoulder.

How merrily in Gabrielle’s ear sounded the bells of S. Cross!