CHAPTER XL.

THE GOVERNOR AND THE PAGE.

Christopher found the governor deep in his meal, which he enjoyed with the zest of a man who has few sources of occupation or amusement, and, therefore, gives free scope to the appetite. He was just filling a glass of wine as the man came in, and holding it up, smiled to see its amber hues sparkle in the lamplight. Indeed, he was too pleasantly occupied for any remembrance of the errand on which the keeper had gone.

“Ah! is it you again, my Christopher?” he said, draining the glass with a mellow smack of the lips. “Well, what news? The bell rang, if I remember. What unreasonable person was so bold?”

“It is a person from Versailles, your excellency; some one with a letter, and a special message to yourself.”

“From Versailles? Let him in; let him in. It is not often that Louis the Sixteenth requires my services. That is why the rabble has dared to lift its clamor against the Bastille. If he would open its gates to the populace and crowd the old prison from foundation to roof with the disaffected, there would be no more cries of ‘Down with the Bastille!’ in the streets of Paris. Let the king’s messenger present himself, he is welcome.”

Christopher went out, and directly returned with the page in close company. When this person was seen in the full glare of the light, his appearance of extreme youth vanished. He was slender, elegant, and bright; but there was something in the curve of the mouth, and a depth of expression about the eyes, which belied the boyish air and foppish costume so completely, that the governor arose to receive him with unusual courtesy.

“This letter,” said the page, “will inform you of my business; after that let me pray that we converse alone.”

“Christopher, you may go,” said the governor, filling another glass of wine, and holding it toward his visitor with one hand while he replenished his own glass with the other. “Now, sir, sit down while I read this missive.”

The page accepted the wine, and drank it off, for he felt the need of it after a long and wearisome ride of hours. While the slow color came back to his face, the governor was earnestly perusing the letter. It evidently caused him some disturbance, for a flush of hotter red than the Rhenish wine could give, rose into his face, while his eyes grew large and opened wide with astonishment.

“From her,” he muttered, uneasily. “Why it is years and years since I have seen her name. How came she at Versailles? Must talk freely with her messenger! As if I wanted anything to do with him or her either! Why it might cost me dear with his majesty, and set the rabble to hunting me down like a dog! My own safety! Danger! Humph! Humph!”

All this was muttered incoherently by the astonished governor, while the page sat keenly regarding him, catching up here and there a disjointed word, which made his eyes sparkle and his lips curve scornfully.

“Well,” said the governor, crushing the letter slowly in his hand, where he rolled it indolently between his thumb and finger, “you come to me from Madame Du Berry—a beautiful woman in her time, and in some sort a friend of mine.”

“In some sort?” repeated the page, almost with a sneer. “I thought from what madame said, that she had been a most earnest and all-powerful friend to you in times when her friendship was a fortune, and her enmity ruin.”

“Did she say that? Very natural. The importance of objects magnifies as they recede. It is many years since I knew the madame; and in those years she has ceased to be powerful, either in love or hate. Even her beauty, they tell me, is all gone—and in that lay the power she makes such boast of. Still I have a tender remembrance of the madame, who had a kind of loveliness that was distracting. At one time I almost adored her; as for the lady herself—Well, it would not be quite proper to state how much of her boasted kindness sprang from a more tender sentiment than she would have liked to acknowledge before the king; but I have my memories.”

Here the page sprang to his feet, clenched one white hand under its frills of common lace, advanced a step, as if to dash it in that flushed face, and let it fall again with a sharp, unnatural laugh.

“Another glass of wine,” he said, unclinching the hand; “these reminiscences are so pleasant they amuse me!”

The governor lifted the bottle near him, and dashed a flood of the amber liquid over the white hand which held the glass, for his own was rendered a little unsteady by the sudden action of the page; who tossed off the wine with a laugh that rang mockingly through the room.

“Well,” he said, “as you and the Du Berry were such intimate friends, we can talk with the more freedom. Both you and the lady are just now in imminent peril.”

“Peril! How?”

“Both with the king, which is not so threatening, but with the people, who are getting dangerous.”

“As how? Speak out! This is the second time to-day I have been warned of the people’s hate. But the king—in what way have I offended him?”

“In nothing that I know of. But occasions arise in which our best friends act, unconsciously, with our worst enemies. The king, in his goodness, works hand-in-hand with the people, who hate him and us.”

“In what way?” inquired the governor, now deeply interested. “Why should his majesty do aught to imperil an old and faithful officer like me? That he should hold some malice against Du Berry is not remarkable. She was impudent enough while he was Dauphin to account for any ill-feeling he may have toward her now; but with me, who have always been a favorite, the thing is impossible.”

The page still kept on his feet and walked up and down the room, forgetting all forms of politeness in his excitement. He paused at last, and flashed a glance of brilliant scorn upon the governor.

“There is no such thing as impossibilities where the selfishness or ingratitude of men are concerned,” he said. “The idol of the people to-day is not sure of his position for a week.”

“Of the people? Yes. But I claim nothing of them; my strength lies in the king.”

The page gave his antagonist—for such these two persons were fast becoming—a sharp glance, but made no answer to his last speech, which had apparently made little impression upon him.

“The king, the queen, and, most of all, you and the lady on whose behalf I come, are in danger. A single new cause of discontent against this prison, and the smouldering hate of the people will break forth. Louis foresaw this, but had not force of will enough to prevent it. One word from his wife, and he was ready to brave everything.”

“But what has he done?”

The page drew close to the table and leaned one hand upon it.

“Years ago, the very last of our old king’s reign, a man was brought to the Bastille—his name was Gosner.”

“Gosner—why that man is alive yet. Neither dampness or famine seem to have any impression on him. He was brought here under a _lettre-de-cachet_, and was one of Madame Du Berry’s enemies. I remember, she came here to the prison, just after the old king died, and upbraided this man with having killed him by his necromancy. She was very bitter against the prisoner, and seemed afraid that he might be pardoned out. That woman had a hard heart.”

“Yes; she had a hard heart,” repeated the page; “but often, ah! so often, she was forced to be cruel in self-defence. It is so now—it is so now!”

Once more the page commenced walking up and down the room; he paused suddenly.

“This man, Gosner, was, at the request of madame, put into the underground cells,” he said, “where he has been until within the last year. When we took him out for a week or two, and found him almost blind—a poor, enfeebled creature, hardly worthy of the new life we gave him.”

“And now?” questioned the page.

“Now he is but little better—a gleam or two of light and air does not change a prisoner of many years so much as you might imagine; besides, this man was feeble from the first, but lived on, withering away into the shadow he is; we have put him back again; the sight of his decay was too much.”

“Well, this is the man they will parade before the people as a proof of the terrible cruelties practiced here.”

The governor half rose from his feet in sudden alarm.

“Who will do this?” he exclaimed.

“The king; or, rather, his Austrian wife.”

“The king!”

“Who has pardoned this man, Gosner.”