“To crush under his feet all the prisoners of the earth, to turn aside the right of a man before the face of the Most High, to subvert a man in his cause, the Lord approveth not.”
TIME passed; but Gerard kept no note of it. He cared not to know how many weary nights he lay awake, hearing every half hour the sentinel’s bell; how many mornings he watched the slow dull light stealing through the barred meurtrière that formed his only window; how often the turnkey came to him, standing silently within the second door of his cell, while with hasty hand he cut the provisions doled out to the captive, for knives were a forbidden luxury in the Bastille―not without reason.
No fire, no lamp was allowed him; and the “glacial” atmosphere of the “cinquième étage” told upon frame and nerves, causing at first acute bodily suffering, then a numb, listless lethargy from which he never tried or cared to arouse himself. Often the visits of the turnkey awakened him from an uneasy slumber, often he found himself singing fragments of old songs, or even holding conversations with the absent or the dead, not knowing whether he was awake or sleeping.
At last one day the turnkey entered at an unusual hour, and bade him rise and follow him. He obeyed mechanically, still murmuring, ―
“Il n’a plus rien á craindre,
Ni rien á désirer.”
“Hope that may be true for you, monsieur,” the turnkey muttered, as they left the cell.
Gerard smiled. “Perhaps it is true already,” he said. “Extremes meet.”
He was led to the room where he had been at first received by the governor of the prison, and found himself once more in the presence of that gentleman. Another personage was there also, whom he already knew, M. de Sartines, “lieutenant of police.” Great logs were blazing on the stones which served as a fireplace, and the momentary pleasure the sight afforded him was the first sensation of which he was conscious. He collected his thoughts however, bowed to the governor, then to M. de Sartines, and stood in silence awaiting their will
“Monsieur,” said the governor, “M. le lieutenant desires to interrogate you. I have no right to interfere, but as a friend I say to you, Tell the truth, it is the safest as well as the shortest course; but do not criminate yourself―you cannot be forced to do so.”
The glance M. de Sartines bestowed upon his friend M. Abadie, governor of the Bastille, was not amicable. But it passed unnoticed by Gerard, in the great relief afforded him by the governor’s words, which removed a dark dread that had often haunted his prison hours. Torture was still legal―might it not be employed in his case, as he knew it had been in those of others?
The interrogation began. Its character was inquisitorial. But Gerard’s spirit rose, and his shattered energies revived with the strong necessity laid upon him. He had long ago resolved that, come what would, no other man should be injured by any admission drawn from him. But his hardest trial came when M. de Sartines showed him Prosper’s letter, and required him to repeat the substance of his own, to which it was an answer. It was with difficulty that he repressed a start of surprise. In his ignorance whether his own letter had been destroyed or no, or what account of the matter had been obtained from Prosper, it was exceedingly hard to tell how much he ought to admit. He was closely and cleverly cross-questioned as to the occasion of Prosper’s warning, “Curse not the king in thy thought, and curse not the rich in thy bedchamber;” but he held steadily to his first declaration, that he could not now recall the exact purport of a letter written months ago―that he supposed it might have contained some of those general reflections on the government which were the current topics in every society―but it chiefly concerned his own private affairs. And when Sartines continued his efforts to entangle or intimidate him into some further disclosure, he turned to bay. “Monsieur,” he said, “my letter was harmless. Either you have the power to ascertain that fact for yourself, or you have not. If you have, it is useless to question me thus, for I can tell nothing you do not know already. If you have not, it is worse than useless; for it is base, being an effort to entrap me. I am guilty of no real offense against his Majesty, and I will not assist you in fixing an imaginary one upon me.”
“You are over bold, monsieur,” the lieutenant said; yet from that moment he conducted the examination with greater civility and consideration. At last the long ordeal was over. The two gentlemen withdrew; but Gerard was not at once remanded to his cell; though, rather to conform to the stringent rules of the prison than from any real necessity for such a precaution, a warder was stationed at the door of the room.
As soon as he was left alone, he drew a chair towards the fire and sat down. He tried to think over what had passed, but extreme weariness and the unaccustomed sense of physical comfort combined to overpower him, and he fell asleep.
He awoke with a start. M. Abadie was standing over him, compassion plainly written in every feature. No wonder Gerard’s appearance touched the heart of a man of whom it is recorded that he retained a situation most abhorrent to his nature, solely for the purpose of mitigating the sufferings of the unhappy prisoners committed to his charge. Worn, haggard, unshorn as Gerard was, the manly beauty of other days was not effaced; the deep sunken eyes were full of fire and softness, while the wasted cheeks glowed with excitement, perhaps with fever. Nor could the infamous prison dress conceal the symmetry of the slight graceful figure. Gerard would have risen from his seat, but M. Abadie forbade him by a gesture, and, dismissing the warder, sat down beside him near the fire.
“My poor young friend,” he said kindly, though with an air of reproach, “what can have tempted you to the folly you were guilty of just now?”
“You think then, monsieur, that I spoke too boldly?” said Gerard, looking alarmed.
“No. There is a kind of imprudence that is the perfection of prudence―sometimes, and with some men. But there was neither prudence nor common sense in giving yourself a false name.”
“I did not do it, monsieur.”
“How?―you surprise me. All your friends know you as Désiré Gerard, and by no other name. Yet just now, in your examination, you styled yourself Gerard Grenier.”
“M. de Sartines must know I have no purpose of concealment,” Gerard answered wearily. “I gave him that name simply because it is my real one.”
“Then how came you to have concealed it hitherto?”
“The concealment was not deliberate, monsieur: it came about in this way. My fathers name was Grenier, his native place the forest of Gabre, in Foix. But he was a Protestant, and being driven by persecution from his home, he found refuge with his brethren in the Faith, who inhabited the mountains of. I scarcely remember him, for he died in my early childhood. When I was eight years old the dragoons entered our dwelling, tore me, a weeping child, from the arms of my mother and sister, and brought me to the Jesuits at Privas. They allowed me to retain my true baptismal name of Gerard as a surname―they said I had no right to any other―but they baptized me in the church by the name of Désiré―which I renounce this day, as I renounce them―their faith and their works. Would I had had the manliness to do it years ago!”
“You may renounce the Jesuits as much as you please, but you cannot renounce your baptismal name. However, your explanation is satisfactory. I shall give it to M. de Sartines, and enter you in our registers as Désiré Gerard Grenier. And now, M. Grenier, I have good news for you. I am permitted, at length, to soften your captivity, and to afford you certain indulgences which are, as I venture to hope, an earnest of further clemency on the part of his gracious Majesty.”
“Monsieur, I thank you. But I do not need clemency. I have not offended.”
“Remember, my young friend, that I am neither judge nor advocate. I am only head jailor―often a painful office. Not so today, however. I am permitted to grant you, conditionally of course upon your good behavior, the promenade of the court.”
Gerard looked indifferent, though he murmured some grateful words. He did not feel strong enough to avail himself of the privilege; and the desire, once painfully intense, to look again on the sun and sky, seemed to have faded from him.
“You may also have,” M. Abadie continued, “the solace of a fire in your apartment.”
This favor was not received like the last. Weakened in mind and body as Gerard was, the warmth, the comfort, the sense of companionship seemed just what he needed. Perhaps, too, he thought of fires that shone upon friendly faces long ago―faces that he should see no more. He tried to return thanks, but his voice faltered―died away. “I am ashamed of this weakness,” he said, after two or three unavailing efforts to speak. “What a coward you must think me, monsieur!”
“M. Grenier,” the governor answered, laying his hand kindly on his shoulder, “you are no coward, but as brave a man as I have ever met. I have watched your behavior since you came here. You have suffered, and that keenly; but you have suffered in silence. Other prisoners are perpetually assailing the turnkeys with spoken, and me with written, complaints and remonstrances―”
“Ah, monsieur!” Gerard interrupted, whilst a grateful smile struggled through his gathering tears like sunshine through a mist, “if I had known what a compassionate heart was there to be appealed to, I―like others―would have tried my chance.”
M. Abadie was perhaps not insensible to well-deserved praise. It was with an additional tone of kindness that he answered, “My orders were explicit. Until after your interrogation, I could do nothing for you. But allow me to add, that your deportment today confirms the opinion of your courage I have just expressed. Nor do I think you have injured your case with M. de Sartines; though, certainly, you went to the extreme verge of what was ‘convenable.’ But I come now to the most important of the favors I am empowered to grant you―you may obtain the services of an attendant, if you desire it.”
“I have all the attendance I need, monsieur.”
“But you would like a companion, no doubt? And this solace will be permitted you, upon the conditions always imposed in such cases. Your friends must supply the necessary expenses and find the man (subject to my approval, and to that of M. de Sartines); he will then be admitted to your cell, and allowed―nay, required―to remain there; for his imprisonment must last as long as yours.”
Gerard raised his head, fixed his eyes earnestly on the compassionate face of the governor, and answered in a firm voice, “I will have no servant on such terms, monsieur.”
“And why not, my friend?”
“Think you these long months have taught me nothing of the sweetness of freedom and the bitterness of captivity? Rather than bring a free man into this den of misery, I would lie down on my pallet and die alone tonight.”
“Your words reveal a generous heart; and under other circumstances I would say you were right. But in the present case, monsieur, I advise you―emphatically advise you―to accept the offered grace.” And M. Abadie accompanied his words with a glance full of meaning.
Gerard caught the Look, but he was not yet convinced. “I have no friends to whom I should care to apply,” he objected.
“Yes; you have friends, who are full of anxiety for your fate. And I am the bearer of an intimation from one of them―M. Pelletier, the Farmer-General―that if you will accept the services of a domestic, he is not only ready to provide the expenses, but has a suitable person in view, who is willing to undertake the office.”
“Generous friend,” thought Gerard. “I ought to beware of slighting his kindness. Moreover, there may be matters of the highest importance which he desires to communicate to me in this manner.”
“Do you hesitate still?” asked the governor. “Well, I will add but one word more. I do not think M. Pelletier stands alone. There are persons of high consideration desirous of befriending you.” Gerard felt all the significance of this hint. He had sometimes entertained a hope that the nobleman whose unacknowledged partner he had been, might interfere on his behalf; from fear of certain revelations he had it in his power to make, if from no worthier motive. It was possible that, in the present instance, Pelletier might be acting in concert with him.
“Monsieur,” he said, after a pause, “I place entire confidence in your judgment and your kindness. Therefore, though not without reluctance, I accept the grace you offer.”
“You will not repent it. Keep a brave heart, Monsieur Grenier. These gates, formidable as they look, are not those of Dante’s Inferno, through which hope might not enter. And at worst, there is still heaven to hope for, God to trust in. Farewell.” Having said thus, he rose and left the room, and Gerard was shortly afterward led back to his cell.