CHAPTER V

CAPTAIN ROUX

Lavenne left the café, followed by Rochefort. They passed down the street to the corner, where, drawn up at the pavement, stood a closed carriage.

“Monsieur,” said Lavenne, “this is a police carriage, and as such will be able to leave the Porte St. Antoine—which, as you know, is the gate leading to Vincennes—without question or examination.”

“So I am to make my escape from the Bastille in a police carriage,” laughed Rochefort. “Well, let us enter.”

“Pardon me, monsieur, but I cannot go with you. I have to go to your rooms and make a perquisition, an examination for papers, and so on. Were I not to do this in person, it would be done by some fool, perhaps, who might find undesirable things and talk, or play in some other way into the hands of Monsieur de Choiseul. As for me, you may trust that I will respect all your private correspondence.”

“It is all burnt, my dear Monsieur Lavenne. However, make what search you will. But am I to go alone to Vincennes—and what shall I say to this charming governor you spoke of?”

“No, monsieur, you are to go under strict arrest and masked. Captain Roux is in the carriage; he is rather dull-witted, but has no tongue, so he will not bore you.”

“And will I see you at Vincennes?”

“Possibly, monsieur. And now let me say at once that my advice to you is patience. I do not hide at all from you, monsieur, that I am your friend. That morning when you invited me to drink wine with you whilst you breakfasted, showed me a gentleman, whom I am delighted to be of service to, always remembering that my first services are due to Monsieur de Sartines, my master. I will look after your interests whilst not disregarding his. And now, monsieur, into the carriage, quick, for delay is full of danger here in the open street.”

“I thank you,” said Rochefort, “I have absolute confidence in all you do and say. Well, _au revoir_, Monsieur Lavenne, and now for the acquaintance of Monsieur le Capitaine Roux.”

He entered the carriage, the door of which Lavenne had opened.

“Captain Roux,” said Lavenne, “this is the prisoner, La Porte. Whilst using him as a gentleman, keep him strictly guarded; and, above all, let no man see his face till he is safely at Vincennes. You have the mask. Monsieur La Porte will not object to your putting it upon him for the journey.”

He shut the door and called to the driver, “Vincennes.”

Rochefort, face to face with the redoubtable Captain Roux, broke into a laugh, which found no echo from the other.

Roux was a stout man who never laughed, an earnest-minded machine, if I may be allowed the term; he had also, to use Lavenne’s expression, no tongue. The genius of de Sartines was never better shown than in his selection of these two men for the arrest of Rochefort—Lavenne to persuade him to accept arrest and be conveyed to Vincennes, Roux to convey him.

“Well, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said Rochefort, as the carriage started, “it seems that we are to make a little journey together.”

“Monsieur,” replied the other, “I wish to be in every way agreeable to you and so fulfil my orders in that respect, but I am forbidden to talk to you.”

“And yet you are talking to me, my dear sir.”

“I was only making a statement of my orders, monsieur. And now, if you will permit me, this is the mask.”

Rochefort took the grey silk mask and examined it, then, with a laugh, he put it on. It was fixed with strings which tied behind the head, and he had good reason to thank de Sartines’ forethought in supplying it; for at the Porte St. Antoine, when the carriage stopped for a moment, one of the guards, despite the warning of the coachman, pushed aside the curtain of the window and popped his head in.

“Whom have we here?” said he.

Roux, in reply, struck the man a blow on the face with his clenched fist.

Then, leaning out of the window, he talked to the guards. He asked them did they not know a carriage of the Hôtel de Sartines when they saw it, and spoke to them about their intelligence, questioned their ancestry and ordered the arrest of the unfortunate, whose nose was streaming blood. Then he sank back, and the carriage drove on.

“Ah, monsieur,” cried the delighted Rochefort, from behind his mask, “I have never heard anything quite like that before. I would give the liberty which I do not possess to be able to curse like that—and they said you had no tongue! Tell me, was it by training you arrived at this perfection, or was it a natural gift?”

“Monsieur,” said Roux, “I am forbidden to speak to you.”

The carriage rolled on, leaving the old Hôtel of the Black Musketeers on the right, and the Bastille and the Porte St. Antoine safely behind. Rochefort, seated beside his silent companion, said nothing more, at least with his tongue. The silence of Captain Roux might be a check to conversation, but it lent itself completely to that form of mental conversation which Villon has so well exemplified in the Debate between his heart and body.

Commonsense and M. de Rochefort were having a few words together, and commonsense was doing most of the talking.

“Well, Monsieur de Rochefort,” said Commonsense, “and here we are in a police carriage, at last, being driven to his Majesty’s fortress of Vincennes; and all on account of Politics—that is to say, a woman. You have known a hundred women, yet they have never succeeded in dragging you into Politics. How did this one manage it? You lost your heart to her. That is precisely what happened, and now you have lost your liberty as well as your heart; next thing, you will lose your estates, then you will take this Choiseul by the neck and strangle him, and then you will lose your head—and all through a woman.

“You have made a fool of yourself, Monsieur de Rochefort. Yesterday, you were free as a butterfly, the whole world lay before you, you did not know the meaning of the word Liberty. Well, you are to learn the meaning of that word, and the lesson promises to be a curious one. You are not Choiseul’s prisoner, you are not Sartines’ prisoner, you are not even yourself. You are Monsieur La Porte, and you are being tucked away in Vincennes, hidden, just as a man might hide an incriminating letter in a desk. Why is Sartines so anxious to hide you? Is it not that he fears that you may be found, and if this fear does not fade away in his mind, it is quite on the cards that you may never be found.

“And you can do nothing as yet, only wait. Monsieur Lavenne is your friend, and it seems to me he is the only friend you have got in the world.”

Commonsense is sometimes wrong, as in this instance.

It had forgotten Javotte.

Rochefort was aroused from his reverie by the stoppage of the carriage. They had arrived at the main gate of Vincennes. The great fortress towered above them, the battlements cutting the sky and showing the silhouette of a passing sentry against the free blue of heaven.

Rochefort heard the harsh voices of the guards interrogating the coachman. Then the carriage passed on, rumbling across the drawbridge, and drew up in the courtyard before the door of the entrance for prisoners.

Rochefort got out and, following Captain Roux and being followed in turn by a soldier, passed through the doorway down a corridor to the reception-room. This was a bleak and formal place, the old guard-room of the fortress, where the stands for pikes still remained and the slings for arquebuses; but of pikes and pikemen, arquebuses or arbalètes, nothing now remained, their places being taken by desks, books and manuscripts, and a clerk dry as parchment, who was seated behind one of the desks, and who, having entered all particulars in a book, handed Captain Roux a receipt for Monsieur de Rochefort, as though that gentleman had been a bundle of goods.

Roux, having put the receipt in his belt, turned on his heel and, without a word, left the room. Rochefort, left alone with the clerk and the soldier, turned to the clerk.

“Well, monsieur,” said Rochefort, “it seems to me that Monsieur le Capitaine Roux has left his good manners with his tongue at the Hôtel de Sartines; and he is in such a hurry back to find them that he has forgotten to introduce us properly. I do not even know your name.”

The clerk wrote something on a piece of paper, and handed it to the soldier.

“Come, monsieur,” said the soldier, touching Rochefort on the arm.

“Monsieur,” said Rochefort, still addressing the clerk, “there is a mistake somewhere.”

“In what way?”

“In this way, monsieur. When I consented to come here as the guest of Monsieur de Sartines, I did so on the understanding that I was to be treated as a gentleman. I demand to see Captain Pierre Cousin, the governor of Vincennes.”

“He is absent.”

“When does he return?”

“Monsieur,” said the clerk, “it is not for a prisoner to ask questions.”

“But it is for a clerk to reply. _Mordieu_! it seems to me you do not know to whom you are talking. Come, your master, when does he return?”

The man of parchment half rose from his chair. Then he sat down again. He had, in fact, a special despatch from Sartines on his table giving instructions as to Rochefort’s treatment. He swallowed his anger, and took a different tone.

“The governor of Vincennes returns this evening; he will be informed that you wish to see him. And now, monsieur, our interview is ended. I am busy.”

“Good,” said Rochefort, turning on his heel. Following the soldier, he left the room.

This same soldier was the gaoler on duty by day, whose business it was to receive prisoners, accompany them before the governor or clerk, and then to see them safely incarcerated according to the orders of the governor. Vincennes was much more of a military prison than the Bastille. Soldiers were the gaolers, and the day went to the roll of drums and the blare of bugles, rather than to the clang of bells. Vincennes was more cheerful than the Bastille, but was reckoned less healthy. Madame de Rambouillet it was who said that the cell in which Marshal Ornano died was worth its weight in arsenic; yet of the two prisons, Vincennes was preferable, if there can be such a thing as choice between prisons.

Rochefort followed his guide down the corridor, and then up a circular stone staircase to the floor above. Here they passed down another corridor, till they reached a door on the right which the sergeant opened, disclosing a room, barely furnished, yet not altogether cheerless.

The grated window gave a sweeping view of the country; to the left, pressing one’s nose against the glass, one could get a glimpse of the outskirts of Paris; immediately below lay the castle moat, and running past the moat, the Paris road bordered with poplar trees.

Rochefort went to the window and looked out, whilst Sergeant Bonvallot, for that was the name of his guardian, dismissed the soldier who had followed them, closed the door, and began to make arrangements for the comfort of his visitor.

He inspected the water-pitcher to see if it were filled, the bed coverings to see if they were thick enough, and the sheets to see if they were clean. He knew perfectly well that all was in order, but Rochefort had the appearance of a man who would pay for little attentions, and they were cheap.

“There, monsieur,” said Bonvallot, when he had finished, “I have made you as comfortable as I can. Your dinner will be served at five o’clock, your supper at nine, and should you feel cold a fire is permitted, also writing materials, should you need them—but for those you will have to pay.”

Rochefort turned from the window and contemplated his gaoler fully, and for the first time.

Bonvallot was a large man, with small eyes and a face that suggested good-humour. He would have made a capital innkeeper.

“Why, upon my word,” said Rochefort, who knew at once how to tackle his man, “you seem to me an admirable fellow. My own servant could not have done better, and when I come to leave here, you will not have cause to regret your efforts on my behalf. Your name?”

“Bonvallot, monsieur.”

“Well, Monsieur Bonvallot, here is a half louis to drink my health, and when my dinner is served, let me have a bottle of your best Beaune, and a fire, certainly, there is no companion like a fire, and as for writing materials, we will see about that to-morrow. Should there be any books in this old inn of yours, Monsieur Bonvallot, you may bring them to me. I am not a great reader, but who knows what one may become with so much time on one’s hands, as it is likely I may have here—Is your inn pretty full?”

“Fairly so, monsieur,” replied Bonvallot, falling into the vein of the other. “Though no guests have arrived for some days, still, those who are here remain a long time.”

“Ah! they could not pay any better compliment to the house. Am I alone on this corridor?”

“No, monsieur, in the room next to yours there is another guest. _Ma foi_! he is not difficult to feed either; he seems to live on pens, ink and paper.”

“He must suffer from indigestion, this guest of yours.”

“I do not know what he suffers from, monsieur, but this I do know: when I bring him his food he makes me listen to what he has written, which I cannot understand in the least.”

“Ah, he must be a philosopher, then.”

“I do not know, monsieur. I only know that I do not understand him.”

“Then he is most certainly a philosopher. Well, Monsieur Bonvallot, I will not keep you from your duties. Do not forget the Beaune; and presently, perhaps, you will be able to assist me in getting clean linen and so forth, for I came here in such a hurry, that I forgot to order my valet to pack my valise.”

“We will arrange about that, monsieur,” replied Bonvallot.

He went out, shutting and locking the door, and Rochefort was left alone with his thoughts. He walked to the window again and looked out. Then he opened the glass sash. The walls at the openings of these upper windows were bevelled, else each window would have been but the opening of a tunnel six feet long. They were guarded each by a single iron bar, and the glass sash opened inwardly. Rochefort had as yet no idea of flight, and he was, perhaps, the only prisoner who had ever looked through that window without measuring the thickness of the bar, or estimating the height of the window from the ground.

He was quite content with his position for the moment. Lavenne’s words were still ringing in his ears, and Lavenne’s face was still before him. Rochefort had never feared a man in his life, yet Lavenne had brought him almost to the point of fearing Choiseul.

At bottom, M. de Rochefort was not a fool, and he recognized that whilst Life and Death are simply toys for a brave man to play with, imprisonment for life is a thing for the bravest man to dread. Vincennes was saving him from Choiseul, and as he stood at the window whistling a tune of the day, he followed Choiseul with his mind’s eye, Choiseul ransacking Paris, Choiseul posting spies on all the roads, Choiseul urging on the imperturbable and sphinx-like de Sartines, and Sartines receiving Choiseul’s messages without a smile.

He was standing like this, when a voice made him start and turn round.

“Monsieur de Rochefort,” said the voice, which sounded as though the speaker were in the same room as the prisoner.

“_Mon Dieu_!” cried Rochefort. “Who is that speaking, and where are you?”

“Here, Monsieur de Rochefort, in the next chamber to yours. I heard your voice and recognized it talking to that fat-headed Bonvallot, and I said there must be a hole in the wall somewhere to let a voice come through like that; so I searched for it and found it. The hole is under my bed. A large stone has been removed, evidently by some industrious rat of a prisoner, who never could complete his business. Search for the hole on your side, Monsieur de Rochefort.”

Rochefort pulled his bed out from the wall, and there, surely enough, was a hole about a foot square in the wainscoting. He lay down on his face and tried to look through into the next chamber, but the wall was three feet thick and the head of his interlocutor on the other side blocked the light, so that he could see nothing.

“Here is the hole,” said he, “but I can see nothing. Who are you?”

“Who am I? Did you not recognize my voice? _Hé, pardieu_, I am Ferminard. Who else would I be?”

“Ferminard! Just heaven! and what on earth are you doing here?”

“Doing here? I am hiding from Monsieur de Choiseul. What else would I be doing here?”

“Hiding from Choiseul! Explain yourself, Monsieur Ferminard.”

“Well, Monsieur Rochefort, it was this way. After that confounded presentation, I had an interview with Monsieur Lavenne, one of Monsieur de Sartines’ agents, and as a result of that interview, I consented to place myself under the protection of Monsieur de Sartines for a short time. You can very well guess, monsieur, the reason why, especially as it was brought to my knowledge that Monsieur de Choiseul had wind of my hand in that affair, and was about to search for me.”

“Oho!” said Rochefort. “That is why you are here.”

“Yes, monsieur, and now in return for my confidence, may I ask why you are in the same position and under the same roof?”

“Well, I am here for just the same reason, Monsieur Ferminard.”

“You are hiding from Monsieur de Choiseul.”

“Precisely.”

“_Mordieu_, that is droll.”

“You think so?”

“It is more than droll. For, see here, Monsieur de Rochefort, we are two prisoners, we neither of us wish to escape, yet we have the means.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Well, monsieur, I have only been here a very short time, yet, being an indefatigable worker, the moment I arrived I demanded writing materials and set to work upon a drama that has long been in my mind. Now it is my habit when working to walk to and fro and to act, as it were, my work even before it is on paper.”

“Yes,” said Rochefort, laughing, “I heard you once; go on.”

“Well, monsieur, I chanced to stamp upon the floor whilst impersonating the character of Raymond, the villain of my piece, and the floor, where I stamped upon it, sounded hollow. ‘Ah ha!’ said I, ‘what is this?’ I found a flag loose and raised it, and what did I find there but a hole.”

“Yes?”

“And in the hole, a knotted rope some forty feet long, a staple, and a big sou.”

“_Ma foi_! But what do you mean by a big sou?”

“Why, monsieur, a big sou is a sou that has been split in two pieces and hollowed out, then a thread is made round the edges so that the two halves can be screwed together, so as to form a little box.”

“And what can be held in a box so small?”

“A saw, monsieur, made from a watch-spring, a little thing enough, but able to cut through the thickest bar of iron.”

“And does your big sou hold such a saw?”

“It does, monsieur.”

“_Ciel_! what a marvel, what industry; and to think that some poor devil of a prisoner made all that, and got his rope ready, and then perhaps died or was removed before he could use it!”

“Yes, monsieur, he had everything ready. The thing is a little tragedy in itself, and is even completed by this hole.”

Rochefort laughed.

“And how can a hole complete a tragedy, Monsieur Ferminard?”

“Why, quite simply, Monsieur de Rochefort. The window in this chamber is too narrow to permit the passage of a man’s body, so, doubtless, the prisoner was anxious to reach your chamber. Of what dimensions is your window?”

“Large enough to get through for an ordinary-sized man.”

“There, you see that the unfortunate was justified, and we may even say that the unfortunate must have had some knowledge of your chamber and the dimensions of your window. Well, Monsieur de Rochefort, his labour was not all lost, for though neither of us wish to escape, we both wish to talk to the other. We will have much pleasant conversation together, you and I. Up to this, I have had no one to speak to but that fat-head of a Bonvallot, a man absolutely destitute of parts, who does not know the difference, it seems to me, between a tragedy and a comedy, and to whom a strophe of poetry and the creaking of a cart-wheel amount to the same thing.”

“I assure you, Monsieur Ferminard, the good Bonvallot and I are much in the same case. I know nothing about poetry, and I cannot tell a stage-play from a washing-bill. So in whatever conversations we have together, let us talk of anything but the theatre.”

“On the contrary, Monsieur de Rochefort, since you confess yourself ignorant of one of the most sublime branches of art, it will be my pleasure to open for you the doors of a Paradise where all may enter, so be that they are properly led. But, hush! I hear a sound in the corridor. Replace your bed.”

Rochefort rose to his feet and replaced the bed. Scarcely had he done so, when the door opened, and Bonvallot appeared, bearing some clean linen, two towels, and some toilet necessaries.

“Here, monsieur,” said Bonvallot, “are several shirts new laundered, and other articles, which I have scraped together for your comfort. Half a louis will pay for them.”

“Thanks, put them on the bed; and now tell me, which of the guests of your precious inn occupied my chamber last.”

“Why, monsieur, this chamber has not had a tenant for two years and a half. Then it was occupied by Monsieur de Thumery.”

“And what became of Monsieur de Thumery?”

“He was removed to the next chamber, monsieur.”

“Ah, and is he there still?”

“No, monsieur, he died a month ago.”

“What sort of man was he, this Monsieur de Thumery?”

“A very delicate man, monsieur, and very pious—one who scarcely ever spoke.”

“He never tried to escape, I suppose.”

“Oh, _mon Dieu_! no, Monsieur, he was as gentle as a lamb. He did nothing but read the lives of the saints.”

“Thank you, and here is your half louis. And what is that book on the bed?”

“Why, I brought it with the clothes, monsieur, as you said you wished for books. It belonged to Monsieur de Thumery. It is not much, some religious book or other—still, it is a book.”

He went off, and Rochefort picked up M. de Thumery’s religious book. It was the works of François Rabelais, printed by Tollard of the Rue de la Harpe, in the year 1723.