CHAPTER XLIX.

A WOMAN’S NATURE TRANSFORMED.

Madame Gosner moved through the door, as she uttered a threat which was treason in itself, leading Marguerite by the hand. Monsieur Jacques remained behind, though Christopher stood waiting for him to depart, holding the door with his hand. He had set down the lantern in the passage that those who went out might have more light.

All at once, Jacques took up the lantern, passed through the door, and lifting Madame Gosner’s scarf from the dead man’s face, held down the light and closely examined the features. A quick intelligence came to his eyes. He glanced at Christopher, and saw that he watched these proceedings uneasily.

“Monsieur forgets that his friends are standing in the dark,” said the guard, impatiently.

“No,” answered Jacques; “monsieur forgets nothing.”

Saying this, he set down the lantern, drew a knife from his pocket, and stooping down, cut a lock of hair from the dead man’s temple. All this was done with his back to the guard, who sprang forward and snatched up the light at the moment, and thus was unconscious of the act.

A moment after the two men passed into the passage, the dungeon-door fell to with a crash, and Christopher turned his key in the ponderous lock with a smothered exclamation of thankfulness.

In the upper corridor Madame Gosner turned and addressed a sentence to the guard, who was walking fast as if anxious to escape from the gloom of the place. She paused a moment while speaking, and stood close by the oaken door which marked the position of some cell which her voice had penetrated. From that cell came a cry so wild, so plaintive and thrilling, that the whole group stopped awe-stricken.

“Move on,” said the guard. “It is only some prisoner who has heard our voices. No wonder he cries out; few strangers are ever admitted here, and conversation in these vaults is an unknown thing.”

Marguerite went close to her mother, who stood immovable, listening keenly.

Again the noise commenced, and a tumult of words seemed forcing themselves through the oaken door, against which some heavy weight flung itself with a violence that made all the rusty iron holding it together rattle in staples and sockets.

“Move on! Move on!” cried the guard, stamping his foot with vehement impatience. “Move on, madame! The prison has laws, and you are in the act of breaking them.”

Christopher, who carried the light, walked forward with rapid strides, and the rest were forced to follow him.

When Madame Gosner came into the light of the guard-room her eyes gleamed like stars, and the deadly pallor of her face was terrible to look upon. It seemed as if she had been walking through burning ploughshares, and was ready to go still further along the fiery path. The disappointment, which would have taken away all strength from another woman, had given to her almost superhuman power.

When they reached the governor’s quarters, Christopher desired them to enter, but Marguerite saw Doudel by one of the guard houses and went to him, thus separating herself from the rest. The good man saw by her face that some great evil had fallen upon her, and placed her on a stone bench near him where she could rest in peace while her mother and Monsieur Jacques followed Christopher into the governor’s presence. Here the guard reported the death of his prisoner, which was received with an appearance of profound commiseration.

The governor had recovered all his silky equanimity. With urbane politeness he invited madame and her friend into his own apartments, offered them wine and confections, as if people so disturbed could partake of such dainties; and with elaborate hypocrisy regretted the event which had made their visit to the prison so severe a disappointment.

Madame Gosner listened to all this dumbly, and like one in a trance. Had the man been a statue of granite, she could not have looked into his face with less consciousness of the life that was in him. Some new idea had taken possession of her faculties and locked up her whole being.

Glances of unrest passed between the governer and his subordinate; the marble stillness of this woman seemed to threaten them with danger; her appearance puzzled them. In her dress, and somewhat in her air, she might have belonged to the people; but her language was pure, her manner commanding. If she really was of the lower order, she must be one of those who wield a powerful influence among her compeers, for when she spoke, her words were impressive; when passion swayed her, as it had done in the dungeon, they swelled into powerful eloquence that would have stirred crowds with enthusiasm. She was the very woman to sway ignorant masses; and such women were even now kindling up terrible discontent among the people of Paris.

It was for this reason the governor strove to conciliate the woman before she left the Bastille.

But Madame Gosner would neither eat or drink in his presence. Once she crossed the room suddenly, as he was speaking, and laid her hand on his arm, as if about to question him. But a change evidently came over her purpose, and she drew back without having uttered a word.

Then, in dread silence, she left the prison, pale, haggard, and so depressed by bitter disappointment, that she seemed more like a prisoner, worn out with suffering than a human being acting from her own free will.

Madame Gosner entered her room, and bade her two companions enter also. Up to this time she had not spoken, but walked rapidly through the streets of Paris, looking straight ahead and pressing her lips firmly together, as if some sharp cry were attempting to break forth which she would not permit to escape her.

When the door was closed and bolted, she turned upon Monsieur Jacques, and looked him steadily in the face.

“Monsieur, you visited the prisoners once. Was the man we saw lying dead in a dungeon of the Bastille my husband?”

“Madame, you ask me a hard question. I had my doubts, I have them still. This man was of the same size, thin, emaciated, tall, with masses of gray hair—all these belonged to your husband; but his eyes were closed, all the sweet expression which made his face beautiful, even in that dungeon had disappeared. It may have been the work of death, but my mind rejects the identity.”

“My God, help us! How are we to know? In what way can the truth be discovered?” exclaimed the woman passionately.

Monsieur Jacques drew a lock of hair from his bosom, which he held toward her.

“I cut this from his head. The suspicion was strong upon me, and I thought it might aid us in discovering the truth. Look! You should know the color of his hair, for this is not all gray.”

Madame Gosner reached forth her hand, but drew it back again, shrinking from a touch of the hair. She dreaded the conviction it might bring, for wild as the hope was that had sprung up in her heart, she felt that all strength would go from her if it should utterly fail. She took the hair at last, something in the color reassured her.

“It is darker, less silky, coarser!” she exclaimed. “His hair was like an infant’s, almost flaxen, with gleams of pale gold in it.”

“But time changes the hair more than anything else,” said Monsieur Jacques. “I was wrong to think it a sure test. We must have some more certain proof.”

“For another this may be insufficient, but I ask nothing more. My husband’s hair never could become so dark or coarse as this.”

“Still opinion is no proof. Why should an imposition be practiced upon us? How did the governor know that a pardon was coming?”

“Only through one channel. The king who signed the pardon may have taken this method of evading it.”

“No, no! he never did that,” cried Marguerite.

“No one else had the power,” answered Madame Gosner. “If my husband is yet alive, as I solemnly believe he is, and that I have heard his voice this day, the fraud practiced upon us was known to the king, and done under his sanction.”

“I would give my life to know the truth,” murmured Marguerite. “Oh! if they would have taken my liberty in exchange for his!”

Monsieur Jacques drew close to the girl and bent over her.

“Would you give the man who searched out the truth, and afterward saved your father, something dearer than liberty, your love?” he said.

She looked up earnestly.

“As God witnesseth the promise, I will try!”

Monsieur Jacques fell upon his knees, pressed a burning kiss upon her hand, dropped it, and left the room.