“And over thee the suns arise and set,
And the lark sings, the sweet stars come and go,
And men are at their markets, in their fields,
And woo their loves, and have forgotten thee.”
WHILST Gerard’s tried spirit was thus struggling towards the light, he was unconsciously causing no little embarrassment both to friends and foes outside the walls of his prison. He was not a solitary victim to the honorable ambition of unveiling the guilty mysteries of the “Pacte, de la Famine” for the public benefit. Three others, suspected of attempting the crime that he had merely contemplated, were doomed to languish in the dungeons of Vincennes until the death of the tyrant set them at liberty. For such transgression there was no forgiveness. The doom that awaited the transgressor was that most terrible doom of all ―to be forgotten.
But in Gerard’s case that doom was not easy of execution. For he was a disciple and protégé of the philosophers, and the philosophers had good memories. Louis XV. was afraid of the philosophers, and hated them proportionately. Most gladly would he have immured “all that,” as he contemptuously styled the whole class, in the dungeons of the Bastille, but this was impossible. His power was waning, whilst theirs, though unrecognized, was great, and growing greater every day. He might, and did, exasperate them by petty persecution; he could not crush them. He had to learn at last―he learned it very slowly― that the wasps were armed with stings, and could use them when provoked.
Kingcraft is a difficult art, requiring much adroitness in the exercise, else a very slight inadvertence may ruin an elaborate design. In Gerard’s case more than one blunder had been committed, but the most damaging was the examination of Prosper by the agent of M. de Sartines, which revealed the victim’s situation to his friends. The affair was still further complicated by the interference of Gerard’s noble patron (as he considered himself), who, justly afraid of the revelations a too stringent investigation might elicit, used his influence on behalf of the prisoner with a pertinacity which irritated the king, though it failed to move him from his purpose.
Gerard’s death would in all likelihood have solved the problem, much to the king’s satisfaction, had not M. Abadie been governor of the Bastille, and had not M. de Sartines enjoyed the friendship of several distinguished philosophers, whom he did not care to disoblige by refusing the captive permission to keep a servant. It is true he might suspect this servant was more than he seemed to be; but it was scarcely worth his while to raise objections, at the risk of excluding himself from two or three of the best houses in Paris, and adding to his already unpleasant notoriety by becoming the hero of a few more lampoons and street songs.
But if Gerard must live, there was at least one alternative. He could be sent to some obscure and distant prison in the provinces. There, far more easily than in Paris, he might be forgotten. The very reputation of being “in the Bastille” kept alive curiosity, interest, sympathy―nay, it almost surrounded the victim with a halo of sad romance. But an indefinitely prolonged “retreat” in some far-away monastery would have no such effect; it would combine the appearance of clemency with the reality of stern and silent durance; and eventually Gerard’s name and his wrongs would cease to be remembered, even by the philosophers, One dark and rainy autumn night Gerard and his companion were aroused from sleep, and desired to prepare for a journey. Gerard obeyed with the resigned, almost cheerful, tranquility that had come over him of late, while Gustave was heard to mutter, as his active hands hastily packed their few possessions, “At least they can’t send us to a worse place.”
The Major of the Bastille met them at the foot of the staircase, and led them, with great mystery, across the court and through the numerous doors. They were left a little while in the guardroom near the outer gate; and there M. Abadie himself came to them with kindly words of cheer and farewell. The question whither they were being taken he did not answer, because he could not; but he put into the hands of Gerard a small but very weighty parcel, which, he said, had been sent to him by his friends. “It is better you should not open it until you reach your journey’s end,” he added; “I have examined it, and placed upon it the seal of the Bastille. This, as long as it remains unopened, secures it from further scrutiny. But the seal once broken, it may be examined afresh at every stage, to the probable injury of the contents.”
Gustave’s eyes glistened as he relieved his “master” of the burden. “Gold, I warrant me, by the weight of it,” he thought. “Only one thing would be more valuable to us―iron.”
Meanwhile Gerard thanked M. Abadie, with real emotion, for the many acts of kindness he had received from him. “God,” he said, “who hears the sighing of his prisoners, will reward you, who are doing his work so nobly in this abode of sorrow.”
Few more words were spoken. Gerard and Gustave were conducted to a close carriage, an exempt occupying the front seat beside Gerard, and a musketeer guarding Gustave, while another sat outside. Thus accompanied, they went forth into the darkness―to be forgotten.
A thick veil of oblivion fell and hid them like a pall.
Days, months, years, might roll away, and no letter, no message, reach them from the outer world, or come back again to the world from that mysterious “land of darkness, as darkness itself,” whither they had gone to dwell. The grave was scarcely more absolute in its solitude and its separation from the ties and interests of humanity. Only, even still, “with all the living there is hope.”