CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE FLIGHT OF MARIE TO LIÉGE--PARIS--THE GIBBET OF MONTFAUCON

Midnight was sounded upon the heavy bell of the Bastille by the sentinel on guard but a few minutes before the Marchioness of Brinvilliers--terrified, breathless, and, in spite of her hurry, shivering in her light dress beneath the intense cold--arrived at the Hôtel d’Aubray. There were no signs of life in that quarter of Paris, for the inhabitants had long retired to rest; a faint light, gleaming from the front windows of Marie’s residence upon the snow that covered the thoroughfare, alone served to guide her to the door. The drowsy concierge admitted her, and she hurried across the inner court and upstairs to her own apartment.

Françoise Roussel, her servant, was waiting up for her. Her mistress had left in such an extreme of anxiety, and half-undressed, that Françoise saw at once an affair of great moment had disturbed her; and now, as Marie returned, the girl was frightened by her almost ghastly look. As she entered the room she fell panting on one of the _causeuses_, and then her servant perceived that she had lost one of her shoes, and had been walking, perhaps nearly the whole distance from the Place Maubert, with her small naked foot upon the snow, without discovering it. In her hurried toilet, she had merely arisen from her bed and drawn her shoes on, without anything else, and throwing a heavy loose robe about her had thus hurried with Lachaussée to Glazer’s house; for from Gaudin’s accomplice she had learned the first tidings of his death and the dangerous position in which she stood. And now, scarcely knowing in the terror and agony of the moment what course to adopt, she remained for some minutes pressing her hands to her forehead, as if to seize and render available some of the confused and distracting thoughts which were hurrying through her almost bewildered brain. A few offers of assistance on the part of her domestic were met with short and angry refusals; and Françoise, almost as frightened as the Marchioness herself, remained gazing at her, not knowing what measures she ought next to adopt.

Meanwhile, Desgrais, with the important casket, and accompanied by the clerk Frater and Maître Picard, had reached the house of M. Artus, the Commissary of Police, in the Rue des Noyers, arriving there not two minutes after Marie had quitted it to regain her own abode. Philippe Glazer had accompanied them, partly from being in a measure an implicated party in the affair, but chiefly out of anxiety for the position of the Marchioness, in whose guilt he had not the slightest belief. He was aware of her connection with Sainte-Croix; but this was a matter of simple gallantry, and in the time of Louis Quatorze much more likely to enlist the sympathies of the many on the side of the erring party than to excite their indignation.

‘I suppose you have no further occasion for me?’ observed Maître Picard, as he stood at the foot of M. Artus’s bed, after having awaited the conclusion of Desgrais’s account of the discovery; ‘because, if you have not, I would fain go home.’

The little bourgeois was thinking of the roast pheasant which he had abandoned to the voracity of the Gascon. He had a wild hope that it might be yet untouched.

‘Stop, _mon brave_,’ said Desgrais. ‘You cannot leave me until we have found Madame de Brinvilliers. I have only missed her by a few seconds. You must come on with me to her house, where she most likely is by this time.’

‘I suppose there is no necessity for me to remain here longer,’ said Philippe Glazer.

‘None whatever, monsieur,’ replied the exempt. ‘You will take care of M. de Sainte-Croix’s property; and we may call upon you to-morrow to analyse the contents of this casket.’

Philippe bowed, and left the room. The moment he was clear of the house, having borrowed a lighted lantern from one of the guard, who was at the door, he set off as fast as his legs would carry him towards the Rue St. Paul, having heard enough to convince him that the Marchioness was in danger of being arrested. Upon reaching the Hôtel d’Aubray he clamoured loudly for admission. At the sound of the first knock he perceived a form, which he directly recognised to be that of Marie, peep from behind the edge of the curtain and immediately disappear. Some little delay took place before his summons was answered, and then the concierge, peering through the half-opening of the door, told him that Madame de Brinvilliers was not within. Pushing the menial on one side, with a hurried expression of disbelief, Philippe forced his way into the court, and perceived, as he entered, the figure of the Marchioness hurrying upstairs. He bounded after her, and stood by her side upon the landing.

‘Philippe!’ exclaimed Marie, as she recognised his features. ‘I was afraid it was Desgrais, and I had gone down to give orders that no one might be admitted.’

‘You have not an instant to lose,’ replied young Glazer hurriedly, ‘and must leave the house in reality. I have just now left them with M. Artus, about to come on and arrest you. You must fly--instantly.’

‘Fly! by what means?’ asked Marie; ‘my horses are at Offemont, except the one at--at _his_ house in the Rue des Bernardins. O Philippe!’ she continued, ‘tell me what to do in this fearful extremity. I know not how to act--I am nearly dead.’

All her self-possession, all her duplicity, gave way beneath the crushing agony of the moment. She burst into tears, and would have fallen to the ground had not Philippe caught her in his arms.

‘Is there nothing in the stables that we can depart with?’ asked he of Françoise, who had been watching this short scene with trembling attention. ‘It will not do to hire a carriage, as that would give a certain clue to our route.’

‘A man brought a tumbrel here this afternoon, with some things from the country. He has left it, with the horse, in the stables, and sleeps himself at the Croix d’Or, in the Rue St. Antoine.’

‘Bring this light with you, and show me the way,’ said Philippe, as he placed the Marchioness in a fauteuil, and hurried downstairs, followed by the _femme de chambre_.

As soon as the girl had indicated the spot, Glazer told her to return to her mistress and bid her prepare as quickly as she could to leave Paris, taking with her only such few things as were immediately necessary. Next, pulling the drowsy horse from his stall, he proceeded to harness him, as well as his acquaintance with such matters allowed him to do, to the rude country vehicle which Françoise had spoken about. All this was not the work of five minutes; and he then returned to Marie’s apartment.

But, brief as the interval had been, Marie had in the time recovered her wonted firmness, and aided by her servant had rapidly made her toilet, wrapping herself in her warmest garments for protection against the inclemency of the weather. When Philippe entered, he found Françoise occupied in making up a small parcel, half unconscious, however, of what she was doing, from flurry at the evident emergency of the circumstances; and Marie was standing before the fire, watching the destruction of a large packet of letters and other papers, which were blazing on the hearth.

‘I am ready, madame,’ said Philippe; ‘do not delay your departure an instant longer, or you cannot tell into what perplexities you may fall. Every moment is of untold value.’

‘Where do you propose to take me?’ asked the Marchioness earnestly.

‘I see no better refuge for the instant than your château at Offemont.’

‘Offemont!’ exclaimed Marie; ‘it is twenty leagues from Paris; and in this dreadful weather we should perish on the route.’

‘It must be attempted,’ said Philippe; ‘you say your horses are there; and if we can once reach them, your means of getting to the frontier will be comparatively easy. We must brave everything. Your enemies I know to be numerous in Paris, and you cannot tell what charges they might bring against you when in their power, which it would be next to impossible to refute. Come, come!’

He took her by the hand and led her to the door, the servant following them closely, and receiving from the Marchioness a number of hurried directions and commissions, which it was next to impossible she could remember. As he quitted the room, with some forethought Philippe blew out the candles and collected the pieces; for the night would be long and dark; there were seven or eight hours of obscurity yet before them. When they got to the court where the horse and tumbrel were, the former evidently in no hurry to depart, young Glazer fastened the lantern he had borrowed from the guard to the side of the vehicle, and then assisted the Marchioness to mount and take her seat upon some straw.

‘It is a rude carriage, madame,’ he said; ‘but the journey would be less pleasant if it was going to the Place de Grêve.’

Marie shuddered as he spoke; but it was unobserved in the obscurity. As soon as she was seated, Philippe drew a coarse awning over some bent sticks which spanned the interior, and making this tight all round, prepared to start.

‘Stop!’ he exclaimed, as if struck by a sudden thought; ‘it will be as well to see all clear before us.’

And he advanced to the _porte-cochère_ that opened into the street, when to his dismay he perceived the lighted cressets of the Guet Royal coming down the Rue Neuve St. Paul. In an instant he closed the door and barred it; and turning to Françoise, exclaimed--

‘Go up to the window of your mistress’s room, which looks into the road, and when the guard comes, say she is from home.’

‘There is a court which leads from the stables to the Rue St. Antoine,’ said the Marchioness from the vehicle. ‘You can get out that way.’

‘It is lucky,’ said Philippe, ‘or we should otherwise have been trapped. Françoise! up--up, and detain them every instant that you can. I will prevent the concierge from replying.’

He took his handkerchief and hurriedly tied it round the clapper of the bell, which hung within his reach over the porter’s lodge. Then, turning round the cart, he led the horse through the inner court and stabling to the passage indicated by the Marchioness. Fortunately the snow was on the ground, and there was little noise made beyond the creaking of the vehicle, which in half a minute emerged into the Rue St. Antoine, and Philippe closed the gate behind him.

The thoroughfare was dark and silent; but the snow was falling heavily, as its twinkling by the side of the lantern proved. This was so far lucky, because it would cover the traces of their route almost as soon as they were made. The fugitives could plainly hear the sound of voices and the clatter of arms in the Rue Neuve St. Paul; and aware that the delay could only last for a few minutes, Philippe urged on the animal as well as he could, and turned up a small street which ran in a northerly direction from the Rue St. Antoine.

‘You are passing the gate,’ said Marie, who all along had been looking anxiously from the vehicle, as she pointed towards the Bastille, where one or two lights could be seen, apparently suspended in the air, from the windows of the officials and the guard-room.

‘I know it, madame,’ replied Philippe. ‘It would not be safe for us to leave the city by that barrier. It is the nearest to your house; and if they suspect or discover that you have left Paris, they will directly conclude it is by the Porte St. Antoine there, and follow you. Besides, we might be challenged by the sentinels.’

‘You are right,’ said the Marchioness; ‘the Porte du Temple will be better.’

And shrouding herself in her cloak, she withdrew under the rough shelter of the tilt; whilst Philippe kept on, still leading the horse, through a labyrinth of small narrow streets, which would have been cut by a line drawn from the Bastille to the Temple. At last he emerged upon the new road formed by the destruction of the fortifications, which we now know as the boulevards, and reached the gate in question, which he passed through unquestioned by the _gardien_, who merely regarded the little party as belonging to one of the markets. Had he been entering the city instead, he would have been challenged; but, as the authorities did not care what any one took out of it, he was allowed to go on his way amidst a few houses immediately beyond the barrier, forming the commencement of the faubourg, until he came into the more open country. Here the reflected light from the white ground in some measure diminished the obscurity. The snow, too, had drifted into the hollows, leaving the road pretty clear; and Philippe clambered on to the front of the tumbrel, taking the reins in his hand, and drove on as he best might towards the _grande route_. Not a word was exchanged between these two solitary travellers. Marie kept in a corner of the vehicle, closely enveloped in her mantle; and her companion had enough to do to watch the line they were taking, and keep his hearing on the stretch to discover the first sounds of pursuit.

‘_Peste!_’ exclaimed Philippe at length, as one of the wheels jolted into a deep rut, and the lantern was jerked off and its light extinguished; ‘this is unlucky. We did not see too well with it, and I don’t know how we shall fare now.’

He jumped down as he spoke, and tried to rekindle the light with his breath; but it was of no use; he entirely extinguished the only spark remaining. In this dilemma he looked around him, to see if there was a chance of assistance. Marie also was aroused from her silence by the accident, and gazed earnestly from the cart with the same purpose. At last, almost at the same instant, they perceived a thin line of light, as though it shone through an ill-closed shutter, but a little way ahead of them; and the stars, which had been slowly coming out, now faintly showed the outline of a high and broken ground upon their right. At the top of this some masonry and broken pillars were just observable, supporting cross-beams, from which, at certain distances, depended dark, irregularly-shaped objects. It was a gloomy locality, and Philippe knew it well, as he made out the crumbling remains of the gibbet at Montfaucon.

‘I should have taken this as a bad omen,’ said he, half joking, ‘if the _fourche_ had been still in use. It would have looked as though the beam was meant for our destination.’

As they approached the small cabin from which the light came, Philippe shouted to awaken the attention of those within; but no answer being returned, he jumped down, and knocked furiously at the door. He heard some whispers for a minute or two, and then a woman’s voice demanded, ‘Who is there?’

‘A traveller, who wants a light,’ cried Philippe, ‘to guide him safely to Bourget. For pity, madame, don’t keep me here much longer, or I must be ungallant, and kick in the door.’

There was evidently another conference within, and then the door was cautiously opened. Philippe entered, and his eyes directly fell upon Exili, whilst the female proved to be a woman who was practising fortune-telling in Paris--it was supposed as a cloak for darker matters--and was known to some of the people, and to the whole of the police, as La Voisin. The physician and the student recognised each other immediately, for they had often met on the carrefours, and each uttered a hurried exclamation of surprise at the rencontre.

‘Monsieur Glazer,’ said Exili, as Philippe took a light from the fire, ‘you have seen me here, and possibly are acquainted with what has taken place in the Quartier Latin this evening.’

‘I know everything,’ replied Glazer.

‘Then I must ask you, on your faith, to keep my secret,’ said Exili. ‘You have discovered me in coming here to serve yourself; but this refuge is to me an affair of life and death. You will not betray me?’

‘You may trust me,’ said Philippe carelessly; ‘and in return, madame,’ he continued, turning to La Voisin, ‘if any others should come up, let your story be that you have seen no one this night. Mine also is a case of emergency, and a lady--high-born, rich, and beautiful--is concerned in it.’

The woman assured Philippe he might depend upon her secrecy; and he was about to depart with his lantern, when Exili stopped him.

‘Stay!’ he exclaimed earnestly. ‘Who is it you have with you?’ And as he spoke the strange fire kindled in his falcon eyes that always bespoke the working of some terrible passion within.

‘It cannot concern you,’ replied Philippe. ‘I have got my light, and our interview is concluded.’

‘Not yet,’ answered Exili quickly. ‘A woman--rich, high-born, and beautiful. It is the Marchioness of Brinvilliers!’

And before Philippe could stop him, he rushed forward and threw open the covering of the cart, discovering Marie still crouching in the corner of the vehicle.

‘I have you, then, at last,’ he cried, in a voice choking with rage, as he recognised her. ‘Descend!--fiend! demon! murderess of my son! Descend! for you are mine--mine!’

He was about to climb up the vehicle, when Marie, to whom part of the speech was entirely incomprehensible, shrank to the other side of the tumbrel, and called upon Philippe to defend her. But this was not needed. The young student had clutched the physician by the neck, and pulled him back on to the ground.

‘What do you mean by this outrage, monsieur?’ he asked.

‘She is a murderess, I tell you!’ he continued hoarsely. ‘Her damned arts drove my son--him they called Sainte-Croix--to death! She killed him, body and soul, and she belongs to me. I will denounce her to the Chambre Ardente.’

‘Keep back!’ cried Philippe; ‘you are mad! What has the Marchioness of Brinvilliers in common with yourself?’

‘You shall see,’ answered Exili. ‘Look there--in the faubourg--the guard is coming. They have tracked you.’

And indeed the lights were visible from the cressets carried by the Guet Royal at the extreme end of the route. Philippe sprung upon the tumbrel as Exili spoke, and tried to proceed; but the other seized the horse’s head and endeavoured to arrest his progress.

‘Stand away!’ exclaimed young Glazer, ‘or you are a dead man!’

‘I shall not move,’ was Exili’s reply. ‘I shall be doomed myself, but I will drag her with me to the scaffold. See! they are coming--she is mine!’

His further speech was cut short by Philippe, who, raising his heavy country whip, struck the physician with all his force with the butt-end upon the temple. Exili staggered back, and then the student, lashing his horse furiously, drove from the hovel with tolerable speed, placing the lantern under the covering, that it might not be seen; whilst Marie, without speaking a word, gazed anxiously behind upon the advancing patrol. In a minute, however, a turn of the road shut them from her sight, and the travellers found themselves approaching the faubourg of La Villette, upon the high-road, without the Porte St. Martin.

It was, as Exili had said, a party of the guard who were in pursuit, mounted, and headed by Desgrais. The active exempt had gone to the Hôtel d’Aubray, as we have seen, and being at last admitted by Françoise, had seen some traces of a departure on the snow, which had drifted into the sheltered parts of the court. But in the street the fall had covered up the wheel-tracks; and, as the fugitives had conceived, he went directly to the Porte St. Antoine. The sentinel, however, told him that no one had passed the barrier; and he then rode briskly along the boulevards to the next gate, near the Temple. Here he learned a tumbrel had gone out of the city but a few minutes before his arrival; upon which he divided his troop into two parties, sending one along the road to La Courtille, whilst with the other he took the same line that Philippe had chosen, these being the only two practicable routes for vehicles without the barrier, and accompanied by the latter escort he soon arrived at the foot of Montfaucon.

Exili had been stunned for a few seconds by the heavy blow which Philippe Glazer had dealt to him; but, recovering himself before the guard came up, he darted back into the hovel, and seizing a piece of lighted wood from the hearth, told La Voisin to save herself as she best might, and then scrambled with singular agility up the steep mound at the back of the house, until he reached the stone-work of the gibbet. This was crumbling, and afforded many foot-places by which he could ascend, until he stood between two of the pillars that still supported the crosspieces, above the hollow way along which Desgrais and his troop were progressing.

The exempt knew the physician directly, as his gaunt form appeared in the lurid light of the cressets, and the rude torch that he himself carried; and he would have ordered the guard immediately to capture him, had not Exili arrested the command by speaking.

‘You seek the Marchioness of Brinvilliers,’ he cried. ‘She was here not an instant back; and you will find her, if you care to hurry, on the _grande route_.’

‘I call upon you to surrender yourself my prisoner,’ said Desgrais, speaking from below; ‘you may then guide us on the track.’

‘If I had meant to give myself up,’ said Exili, ‘I should have remained below. I have put you on the scent, and that was all I wanted. Farewell!’

He waved his hand to the officers, and disappeared behind the foundation of the masonry. On seeing this, Desgrais sprang

[image: img_13.jpg caption: The Arrest of Exili]

from his horse, and, seizing a cresset from the guard, told one or two of the others to follow him, as he rapidly ascended the mound. He was active, his limbs were well-knit, and a few seconds sufficed to bring him to the spot from whence Exili had spoken; but as he looked over the area of masonry, not a trace of the physician was visible, except the smouldering brand which he had flung down upon the ground.

The others had arrived at the platform, and by the additional light from their cressets Desgrais perceived an opening in the stone-work, conducting below by ragged jutting angles of masonry, and down this he boldly proceeded to venture. It conducted to a terrible spot--the cemetery of those unfortunates who had perished on the gibbet, into which the bodies were thrown in former times, to make room for fresh victims on the _fourche_. But now the dry bones were all that remained, crushing and rattling beneath the feet of the exempt as he proceeded; for nearly a century had elapsed since the last execution--that of the wise and just Coligni, during the fiendish massacre of St. Bartholomew. But the place had been undisturbed, time alone having altered its features; the only intruders upon its dreary loneliness being the dogs, and the sorcerers, who came thither for materials to give a horrid interest to their calling and frighten the vulgar who came to consult them.

By the flaring light of the cressets Desgrais beheld Exili cowering at the end of the vault. His object had evidently been to betray the Marchioness, whilst he eluded capture himself; but he had under-rated the keen vigilance of the exempt. He had been taken in a trap; and as one or two of the Guet Royal followed Desgrais, he saw that further resistance was useless. He held up his hand to prevent the threatened attack which the others seemed inclined to make; and then, advancing to the exempt, muttered--

‘I am your prisoner; take me where you please. The game is up at last.’

The party retraced their steps, and descended once more to the byway of the faubourgs. Bidding two of the patrol watch Exili, Desgrais next went into the hovel, and ordered the woman to come forth. She immediately obeyed, and made a haughty reverence to the authorities.

‘Madame Catherine Deshayes,’ said Desgrais, ‘by your name of La Voisin you are already under the surveillance of the police. You will please to accompany them at present, until your connection with the Signor Exili can be explained.’

Some of the patrol directly took their places on either side of the woman, and then Desgrais turned to Exili.

‘You will stay for to-night,’ he said, ‘in the Châtelet; to-morrow other arrangements will be made for your sojourn until the opening of the next chamber at the Arsenal. Two of you,’ he continued, addressing the guard, ‘will take charge of the prisoner to Paris.’

‘Then you will not want me to follow Madame de Brinvilliers?’ said Exili.

‘We do not now require your aid,’ was the reply. ‘Messieurs,--_en route_!’

The guard prepared to mount, when one of them rode, apparently in a great feeling of insecurity, through the little knot of patrol, and approached Desgrais. The lights revealed the form and features of Maître Picard.

‘Monsieur,’ said the little bourgeois, ‘I fear my horse is tired. I will therefore form one of the escort to take the prisoner to the Châtelet.’

‘I fear we cannot spare you just yet, _mon brave_,’ said Desgrais. ‘You are the only member of the Garde Bourgeois with us, and we may need your authority after mine. You must come on at present.’

Maître Picard groaned as he turned his horse’s bridle back again. He was evidently ill at ease in the saddle. He could just touch the stirrups--the leathers of which were much too long for him--with the tips of his toes; and as he had not crossed a horse since his grand progress to Versailles, he complained that the action of the present steed was somewhat too vigorous for him. But he was obliged to obey the orders of the exempt, and fell into the rear accordingly.

‘A country cart, drawn by one horse, and covered with a tilt, is the object of our chase,’ said Desgrais. ‘It cannot be ten minutes before us. Forward!’

The majority of the guard set off at a smart trot along the hollow way, whilst those who remained placed their prisoners between them, and prepared to return by the Porte du Temple to Paris.