CHAPTER X.

WHAT FURTHER BEFEL LOUISE IN THE CATACOMBS OF THE BIÈVRE

As the last of the lawless band departed from the _carrière_ Lachaussée advanced towards the altar, at the foot of which Louise Gauthier had claimed a sanctuary. In spite of Bras d’Acier’s last threat, the denunciation of the Abbe Camus had somewhat awed him. But Lachaussée was less scrupulous. He was as dead to all religious feeling as the others, and besides this, superstition had no power over him. Advancing to the cross, he seized the arm of Louise, and tore her from the altar into the middle of the apartment.

The knocking which had struck such terror into the hearts of the subterraneous gang still continued, and again Louise raised her voice for assistance.

‘They will murder me!’ she cried. ‘Help! this instant, or it will be too late. There are but two, and----’

Lachaussée placed his hand over her mouth and stopped her cries. And then, assisted by Bras d’Acier, he hurried her into a smaller _carrière_ leading from the great one by a rude archway, which could be closed after a manner, like the door, by a large curtain of rude sackcloth. It was a vault hewn out similarly to the other, with a rough attempt to form a gothic roof and buttresses from the limestone. But there were horrid features in the apartment which made Louise shudder as she looked timidly round. A dull and smoking lamp was here also suspended from the ceiling, and by its light could be seen coffins in every direction round the walls; some with their feet projecting some inches beyond them; others lying sideways, such as we see bounding the grave of a crowded burying-ground. In many instances they were open, but no remains were visible. Their cases appeared to have been appropriated to use as cupboards, in which articles of various kinds were stored. In one corner were a few skulls and bones thrown carelessly together; the number was insignificant, and they were not ranged in the order of the existing catacombs. As we have stated, the _carrières_ were at that time the mere result of excavations for building stone; it was not until more than a century after the date of our story that the health of the city demanded the removal of the foul and reeking burial-ground attached to the Église des Innocens, at the corner of the Rue St. Denis and the Rue aux Fers, near the present market, with whose beautiful fountain every visitor to Paris is familiar.[3]

In one corner of this ghastly chamber was a large font filled with water, which distilled drop by drop from the stalactites that overhung it, and the reflection of the lamp quivered on its dark surface. It ran over at one corner, and small channels hewn in the floor conveyed it away to _carrières_ still deeper.

‘Another word,’ said Lachaussée, ‘and we leave you to your own company in this dreary place.’

‘I ask no more,’ replied Louise, recoiling from him as he relaxed his hold. ‘Let me be anywhere, so long as I am alone, and away from those fearful people.’

‘I am sorry you do not like them,’ said Bras d’Acier; ‘the more so as you will perhaps have to pass a little time amongst us. Only it would not have answered to have taken you from the sanctuary before them. They are particular in matters of religion.’

And he accompanied these last words with a horrid laugh.

‘Do not take me among them again, M. Lachaussée,’ said Louise, ‘I implore you. Let me remain here rather, even in this dismal vault.’

‘Pshaw!’ cried Lachaussée; ‘you know not where you are. Look at those coffins--they have long since been despoiled of their festering contents to hold Bras d’Acier’s riches. You are below the cemetery of St. Medard, hemmed in on all sides by corpses, the accumulation of centuries. Would you like this for a companion?’

He stooped to pick up a skull, and held it in mockery over the flame of the lamp, which hideously illuminated it. Then, tossing it back to the corner of the chamber, he went on--

‘The very air is redolent of mortality. The decay of ages, in some of the coffins, leaves but the food for that lamp which is now burning above us. Bras d’Acier is an economist; and many of the quiet inhabitants of the cemetery become more useful to mankind in death than they ever were in lifetime. They form his flambeaux.’[4]

‘Is there no one to aid me,’ cried Louise in agony, and shrinking from the accumulated horrors of Lachaussée’s description.

The dull knocking sound was again audible, but louder. It appeared to be close at hand, and the girl redoubled her outcry.

‘Be still, I tell you,’ said Bras d’Acier, ‘and come instantly with us.’

‘With you!’ exclaimed Louise; ‘never; you shall kill me first. Mother of Mercy! pity me; for to you alone can I now look for assistance.’

She fell on her knees and grasped a small crucifix that was suspended from her neck. Lachaussée snatched it from her, and threw it amidst the bones and rubbish in the corner.

‘One moment’s delay,’ he added, ‘and you are lost. Do you see that wall where the water is trickling and oozing into the font? It is not thicker than the length of your hand, and that is the only boundary between us and a branch of the cold Bièvre, which flows over our heads. We have but to confine you in this room, and let in the river; the _carrière_ will be filled, and every record of the deed hidden. Come.’

‘Leave me here--drown me--if you know what mercy means,’ returned Louise, as she struggled with her persecutor. ‘How have I ever injured you, that you should persecute me thus terribly?’

‘Your own sense might have warned you not to annoy M. de Sainte-Croix as you have done. But we have no time for words; you will have plenty of leisure in the Carrière Montrouge to learn everything. Bras d’Acier, you have broader shoulders than my own to carry a burden. Take up the squalling minx, and follow me. I will precede you with the light.’

The huge ruffian advanced towards Louise Gauthier, who, despite their threats, shrieked with terror as he approached. He lifted her as he would have done an infant, whilst Lachaussée took down the lamp from where it hung and prepared to go before him. But as they were leaving the vault the noise sounded close at their side; the very walls appeared to quiver from some unseen blows; a few of the stalactites fell down with the vibration at their feet, and lastly the gypsum that formed the doorway was shivered into the chamber in large blocks, and a bar of iron, sharpened at one end, protruded, as though it came from the very bowels of the quarry. The concussion and the fall of the blocks brought down others with them, and one large mass falling from the top of the archway completely closed the passage.

Bras d’Acier recoiled at the unexpected obstruction, and, throwing Louise off, raised a long heavy pistol fitted with a _snaphaunce_--a cheap modification of the wheel-lock, much used by the marauders of the period--and discharged it at the aperture whence the blocks had tumbled. The report caused a few more lumps to fall from the ceiling, and when the smoke cleared off, the upper part of a man’s body appeared at the opening.

‘If that is one of Colbert’s blood-scenters, I have winged him,’ said Bras d’Acier.

‘Not yet,’ said the stranger, smashing the wall on either side and scrambling into the vault; ‘not yet, _mes braves_. Pheugh! I was obliged to knock a long time before you let me in!’

‘Benoit!’ cried Louise, as she recognised our friend of the boat-mill, and flew towards him. ‘What good angel brought you here?’

‘No better one than yourself, _ma belle_,’ replied the Languedocian. ‘So,’ he continued, looking around him, and perfectly undismayed by the threatening looks of Bras d’Acier; ‘this is an odd place for gallant officers, like M. Gaudin, to give appointments at or receive visitors!’

‘Where are your fellows?’ asked Lachaussée.

‘Oh, I’m alone,’ replied Benoit. ‘What should I want with fellows?’

‘To bury you if we blow your brains out,’ returned Bras d’Acier.

‘Do it,’ said Benoit, drawing Louise towards him with one arm, whilst with the other he carelessly dug a bit of gypsum from the wall with his iron spike, and kicked it towards them. ‘Do it; and to-morrow my little wife, Bathilde, will go to the Préfet with a note from me, ordering a search for Louise and M. Lachaussée there, and telling him where there will be a chance of finding me.’

‘How came you here?’ asked Lachaussée fiercely.

‘Not by your route,’ said Benoit. ‘I know every turn of the quarries better than yourselves; I ought to do, for I worked in them when the stone was hewn for the new works at the Gobelins. Do me the pleasure, ma’amselle, to scramble through this opening.’

The last words were addressed to Louise, who remained close to her new protector during the hurried parley, but at his bidding prepared to climb over the debris of the gypsum into a passage beyond. Bras d’Acier made a movement to intercept her, but was restrained by Lachaussée.

‘Your turn is yet to come,’ said the robber, grinding his teeth at Benoit.

‘As you please, _mon maître_; only think twice about it first,’ answered the Languedocian, as he assisted Louise through the archway.

‘You have checked us to-night,’ said Lachaussée; ‘it is the first time, but it is the last; and when we meet above ground we will let you know it.’

‘_Sacré bleu!_’ roared Bras d’Acier, rushing forward with a sudden impulse. ‘I can’t lose our promised wages thus, come what may. Give up the girl.’

As he flew at the broken archway, Benoit met him with a heavy blow from his weapon upon his head. To another man it would have caused instant death. Upon Bras d’Acier it had no other effect than making him reel back against Lachaussée, who was behind him.

‘Fly, ma’amselle!’ said Benoit; ‘straight before you, towards that light at the end of the _souterrain_. I warned you,’ he continued, turning to the others. ‘You will find as strong arms in Languedoc as in Paris.’

Bras d’Acier was for the minute stunned; he caught Lachaussée by the arm and leant upon him for support. Benoit took advantage of the circumstance to put the final _coup_ to his enterprise.

‘When we hunt out vermin,’ he said, ‘it is of no use unless we destroy their nest. Now, save yourselves as you like; but you shall not come near me.’

He was already on the other side of the passage, when,

[image: img_07.jpg caption: Bras D’acier and Lachaussée Outwitted]

scrambling forward, he stood once more on the broken masses of the quarry, brandishing his iron weapon. And then, with Herculean force, he drove it against the side of the chamber which Lachaussée had pointed out as adjoining the Bièvre. Another and another blow succeeded, whilst a foaming stream followed the spike every time he withdrew it, until, weakened by the ruptures, an immense portion of the gypsum gave way, and, with the roar of a mighty cataract, an enormous body of water burst through the wall, carrying everything before it, as it rushed at once, leaping and chafing, to every part of the chamber.

As the irruption took place, Benoit leaped back to the aperture he had himself broken open. Lachaussée and Bras d’Acier, in the alarm of the moment, prepared to follow him, for the lashing water had already reached nearly unto their knees. But the force of the torrent drove them back, and as it rushed to the readiest and lowest outlet--that leading to the large vault--hurried them along with it, washing down all the barrier that had been made in the archway by the fallen blocks. By the lamp which still hung from the ceiling, Benoit saw them whirled through the narrow passage; and the next instant the water reached the level of the gallery wherein he stood.

‘Now! now, sweetheart, make use of your legs, if ever you did!’ he cried to Louise, who had remained close to him. ‘We must travel fast to outstrip it; but, thank heaven, it is all up-hill. Ah--lash away; we shall beat you yet.’

He addressed the last words to some waves which dashed over the broken gypsum at his feet; for, in spite of the vast _carrières_ into which it had burst, the water was rising rapidly, in consequence of the inequalities of their levels.

Then, seizing Louise, they fled rapidly, hand in hand, along the gallery--which was altogether a different one from that by which she had arrived--towards the end of it, where he had taken the precaution to leave a light, chased by the furious stream that was hurrying with a noise like thunder after them, coupled with the crashing and falling of the blocks of limestone, which continually broke down before its resistless force.

Fast and faster they sped through the labyrinth of vaults--now crouching along a rough and narrow passage, and now flying over the hard floor of a large vault, or scrambling across an eboulement of the gypsum. And louder came the roar of the water, as it seemed animated in the pursuit by a spirit of life. With the courage which despair gives to the weakest, Louise kept up with and sometimes out-stripped her companion, who cheered her as he best could; and whilst he threaded the intricate way with a readiness that showed his perfect familiarity with the _carrières_, promised her a safe asylum when they left them.

At last they emerged; not, however, into the pure air, but the damp and dim obscurity of a vault under one of the questionable dwellings in the Rue d’Enfer. This street was then inhabited almost entirely by the low and criminal population, which French statists have named ‘_les classes dangereuses_.’

Louise knelt in the vault and prayed. Benoit, after a moment’s pause, reverently crossed himself and knelt by her.

‘_Eh bien_, ma’amselle!’ said he, when his devotions were finished, although still out of breath. ‘Here is the worst part of our journey over. Still----’

And Benoit paused and scratched his head violently.

‘Run into no further danger on my account, good friend,’ said Louise, guessing at once the cause of his embarrassment. ‘It is enough that I have escaped the fearful danger of those caverns. Leave me now; I will find some shelter and employment. A convent----’

‘The _religieuses_ do not look upon young women exactly as godsends, unless their pockets happen to be better garnished than I take yours to be, _ma colombe_,’ said Benoit. ‘I would take you back to the boat-mill, and welcome, but that would be the first place to which they would come to find you. Now I have a friend--Lord forgive me for abusing the word!--an acquaintance hereabouts, where you would be safe enough from M. Lachaussée and his band; if they are not settled by the Bièvre long before this. _Mais_----’

And Benoit shrugged his shoulders in most eloquent bewilderment.

‘Who and what is your acquaintance?’ said Louise.

‘Why, he calls himself a _professeur_, ma’amselle,’ replied Benoit; ‘but what he is just now is not quite so easily told. I have known him already in the last half-dozen years as juggler, Bohemian, bravo, cattle-doctor, rope-dancer, archer--ay, and courtier too. But courage! It is but a trial.’

Louise paused, and Benoit proceeded towards the outlet of the vault or cellar in which they stood, looking back to his pale charge when he reached the stairs. The appeal of his honest open face was irresistible, and Louise followed him. They ascended and found themselves in a rude corridor. The filth and damp of years was thick and clammy on the walls; and the dim light that struggled through the narrow windows, scattered at random up and down, showed long passages that branched from the _palier_ where they stood, lined with doors on either side. Benoit, after looking about him for a moment as if to recall his memory of the localities, struck down the one which faced them.

They paused at the third door. Benoit raised his hand to knock, when the sound of a woman’s voice within arrested it. Louise held her breath and listened earnestly. Benoit turned and looked at her, as she motioned with her hand that they should return towards the point from whence they had come. But her guide shook his head, and, with a sort of desperate grin, knocked loudly with the iron bar he still held in his hand. The sounds within ceased, and a heavy step approached the entrance. Benoit repeated his assault on the door.

‘Who knocks?’ said a shrill voice.

‘_Tsa tshen pal!_’[5] was Benoit’s reply.

The tongue in which he spoke was unintelligible to Louise, but the words seemed to reassure the occupant of the room, who at once proceeded to withdraw two heavy bolts, and gave admittance to Benoit and his companion.

The person who opened the door now stood before them. He was a slender well-proportioned man, in a close-fitting doublet and _chausses_ of black serge. The sharp and angular features, the saffron complexion, and large filmy black eye, showed the real gipsy blood. He looked at Louise with a strange fixed stare, but it was impossible to read anything in the gaze, either of astonishment or alarm.

‘Who is she?’ he asked shortly of Benoit, in the gipsy tongue.

‘A sister of mine,’ replied the Languedocian. ‘She needs shelter and concealment for a while.’

‘She cannot have them here,’ was the answer.

‘By the _morro_[6] and the _lon_[7] she must,’ said Benoit calmly.

The man pointed to an inner door, and said--

‘There is a _ranee_[8] there already confided to my safe keeping. What does your sister fear, that she comes here for safety?’

‘The pursuit of a grand seigneur of the court, who has taken a fancy to her, and be hanged to him!’ said Benoit. ‘Come, it will be but for a day or two--perhaps but for an hour. Remember we are brothers, and the law of the Rommany binds you to help me.’

‘True,’ said the gipsy. He advanced towards Louise and, addressing her in French, told her she could remain where she was so long as it suited her convenience, but on one condition.

‘Name it,’ said Louise.

‘To pay no heed to what does not concern you,’ returned the other. ‘I will give you a companion, who, if she amuses you as she has entertained me, will make the time pass pleasantly enough.’

So saying, he opened the door leading to an inner room, and beckoned her to follow.

From the squalor of the outer apartment Louise Gauthier was little prepared for the scene which presented itself. The room into which they passed was small, but furnished with a richness and elegance that would have fitted a royal boudoir. The walls were painted with flowers, and cupids sporting amidst them. Rich curtains of damask almost covered the single window. Piles of cushions, fauteuils of velvet and ormolu, costly tables, and a marble chimney-piece, with its gay pendule, almost dazzled poor Louise; and it was not until she had taken a rapid inventory of all these that she found the room contained an inmate. A young girl, richly dressed, was half-sitting, half-lying on a divan, in the darkest corner. It was Marotte Dupré--the actress who had vainly implored Sainte-Croix, but a short time previously, to rescue her from the Marquis of Brinvilliers. But she had apparently become reconciled to her abduction, or feigned to be so, for, starting gaily to her feet and springing forward, with a merry laugh, she exclaimed--

‘Welcome, _mon preux gardien_! You have brought me a companion of my own sex, to keep me company until the Marquis returns from the Tuileries. Did you think I wanted one whilst you were here?’

And she threw a witching glance from her dark eye upon the gitano, who, taking her hand, kissed it passionately.

‘She is a young girl, sister to a friend of mine,’ returned the man; ‘who seeks an asylum here for a time.’

‘We welcome her to our court,’ said the actress, with mock dignity, extending her hand to Louise. ‘Sit by us, and tell us of your wishes, hopes, sorrows--everything about you, in fact. And you, my cavalier, dismiss that gentleman with the round face, who is gaping over your shoulder. We would be alone with our new friend.’

The gipsy, thus addressed, turned to Benoit, and a rapid conversation in the dialect of his tribe ensued between them. When it was over, Benoit took Louise aside, and saying, ‘I will find a safer place for you than this--fear nothing, I will return soon,’ left the room, in company with the Bohemian.

‘Who is the other lady?’ asked Benoit as they quitted the apartment.

‘I don’t know, nor do I much care,’ replied the man. ‘She was brought here by the Marquis de Brinvilliers, who was sent for to the Tuileries almost the instant he arrived.’

‘Is she here against her will, then?’

‘Mass! I don’t know what to make of it. It seems that the Marquis was nearly being set upon, in mistake, by his friend, Captain de Sainte-Croix, for carrying her off.’

A hurried exclamation escaped Benoit’s lips.

‘Whereabouts?’ he asked eagerly.

‘Between the Captain’s lodgings and the Hotel d’Aubray, you may be sure,’ was the reply.

Benoit heard no more; but hurriedly bidding his acquaintance farewell, left the house. How he succeeded in his enterprise has been already explained.

As the door of the room closed the manner of Marotte Dupré entirely changed. Hastily and breathlessly drawing Louise to the window, she whispered--

‘I am kept here by force and treachery. The gipsy is a creature of the Marquis of Brinvilliers, who has carried me from the theatre. He is absent for a while; and I am trying the force of my fascinations upon my gaoler, the more readily to compass the means of escape. From whom do you seek asylum here?’

‘I know not,’ said poor Louise, ‘who is my enemy. I do not believe that Gaudin would ever----’

She was interrupted by Marotte. ‘Gaudin de Sainte-Croix?’

Louise assented.

‘Fear the worst,’ said her companion. ‘If Sainte-Croix is your _friend_,’ and she laid an ironical expression on the word, ‘you are indeed deserving of pity.’

Louise was about to speak, when a clamour in the street below attracted their attention. Marotte uttered a cry of joy, and pointing down the Rue d’Enfer, of which the window commanded a view, cried--

‘Look! look!--we are saved!--we are saved!’

Louise followed the direction of her finger, and saw a heavy and magnificently decorated carriage, which, with its attendant lackeys, had just drawn up at the miserable door of a house exactly opposite to the one in which they were. A beautiful young woman, in rich costume, descended from it, and entered the house. Marotte Dupré, with clasped hands, followed her movements with intense anxiety.

‘There is not a moment to lose. _O mon Dieu!_’ she exclaimed as she hastily drew some writing-tablets from her bosom, and, tearing out a leaf, wrote a few lines upon it with marvellous rapidity. ‘Now--now!’ she continued, rolling it up into a ball. ‘Open the window!’

‘Alas!’ returned Louise, as she tried the hasp of the heavy casement; ‘it is secured. I cannot unfasten it.’

‘I have it!’ cried Marotte, whilst a sudden inspiration lighted up her pale features; ‘my ring will open the glass.’

And drawing a diamond ring from her finger--the rich gift of some _habitué_ of the Théâtre du Temple--she drew it around the pane, and then with a gentle pressure forced the glass to yield without. Had they broken it, the sound would have alarmed the gitano in the outer room.

Their chamber was on the entresol; the street was narrow, and the lackey of the carriage was nearly on a level with them. Marotte passed her white arm carefully through the opening, and threw the writing towards the lackey, accompanying the action by a low ‘Hist!’ But it was not heard; and the little note, falling short of its aim, lay in the mud of the street, yet still perceptible in the gleam of the lamps on the carriage.

He was on the point of driving away, when a slight call from Marotte attracted his attention. With some little difficulty he at last perceived the note on the ground, and got down to seize it. Its contents seemed to surprise him; for, after reading it, he passed into the house which the lady had just entered. Marotte followed his movements with feverish anxiety, and Louise caught the infection.

‘Who is that lady?’ she asked; ‘and what was the import of your note?’

‘It is Madame Scarron,’ returned Marotte; ‘the widow of my best friend. She is now in high favour at the court. Oh! she is so good--so kind. I wrote to implore her assistance to deliver us from this house; and she will do it.’

At this moment the gitano returned. Marotte, with the skill of her calling, rose to receive him. All trace of anxiety had disappeared from her face, and she was radiant with smiles. Advancing to the man, she exclaimed--

‘_Bien_, my gallant protector! You will not leave us to ourselves, then?’

The gipsy’s dull eye dilated, and the large pupil flashed with a strange light as he looked at the beautiful woman before him.

‘I cannot stay without and know that you are here,’ he replied. ‘I love to hear you speak and to look at you.’

Louise shuddered at the tone in which he spoke. Marotte had risen; and, while she stood half-turned from the window, threw a rapid glance into the street. The next moment she seized a mandoline that lay on a console of marble, and burst into a gay and jovial song, keeping time to the measure with graceful and wild movements. The gipsy listened with wide open eyes, and lips apart. He had no sight nor ears but for his bewitching prisoner and her song. Louise comprehended Marotte’s object. It was to cover the noise of footsteps and voices on the staircase.

As she expected, a knock sounded at the door of the outer room. The gipsy, with a half-spoken curse, turned his head in the direction of the interruption, but did not stir from the spot as Marotte finished her song.

‘It is Benoit returned,’ said Louise.

‘I hope it may be,’ said the gipsy. ‘I best like mademoiselle here to be alone.’ And he left the room, without closing the door.

Louise’s remark was made in so natural a tone, that no suspicion entered his mind. He did not even pause to ask who knocked, but ushered in the stranger at once.

The tall and beautiful lady whom Louise had seen step from the carriage entered the apartment, followed by four stout and well-armed lackeys.

The gipsy, with the quickness of his tribe, saw his error; but it was too late to repair it. Marotte and Louise, who had watched with intense eagerness the opening of the door, rushed from the inner room, and the former, throwing herself at the feet of Madame de Maintenon (for Madame Scarron had lately received the lands and title of Maintenon from the King) seized her hands, and kissing them, poured forth mingled thanks and prayers. With that winning and grave gentleness which belonged to her, the lady calmed her, and addressing herself to Louise, said--

‘Marotte’s note tells me you too are in danger, and need a friend and a refuge. Come with me, both of you.’

The gitano saw that resistance was useless. The lackeys clutched their long batons in a style that showed it would take but little pressure to make them use them. With all the suppleness of a true Bohemian, he was profuse in his apologies to Madame de Maintenon, to Marotte, and to Louise, and asked their witness to the kindness and civility of his treatment towards them.

Madame de Maintenon cut short his protestations with a contemptuous gesture, and bidding her lackeys mark the number of the house, and the appearance of the gipsy, left the room, accompanied by her two protegees.

Then mounting her carriage, she placed them opposite to her, and giving the order to her attendants, ‘_A Vaugirard_’--they drove off rapidly along the Rue d’Enfer.