CHAPTER VII.

THE PRISONER OF THE BASTILLE.

Jacques sat down, and Mrs. Gosner went on with her narrative.

“We have not always been so poor as this—far from it. My husband was the lateral descendant from a noble house; my own blood is not altogether plebeian.”

Jacques nodded his head, and muttered,

“I thought so.”

Madame went on,

“My husband was a born subject of the empress. He was a learned man—nay, he had higher powers than mere learning can give. In some things he was great.”

Monsieur Jacques started up suddenly, and struck a table near him with his clenched hand. Some idea had evidently excited him.

“Your name is Gosner—Dr. Gosner. I understand—I understand; but go on.”

“The fame of my husband’s powers reached Marie Theresa at her court. She sent for him not long after our marriage. It was just before her daughter came to France. He went, but returned greatly disturbed, and for days was haunted by some distressing remembrance. When we mentioned the Dauphiness, he would turn pale, and go off alone, as if afraid of something. But this changed. He became tranquil as ever, and plunged deeper and deeper into those sciences which were his very life. Some happy years went by. One day my husband received a letter from France. It had come all the way by a courier in the king’s livery, who was ordered to escort the doctor to Versailles, where some person high at court wished to consult with him.

“This summons disturbed us greatly. Instead of being pleased that his renown as a physician had extended so far, he looked upon the summons as a presage of evil. I felt differently, glorying in my husband. I rejoiced that his great learning, and still greater powers, had won this invitation to the court of Louis the Fifteenth, and urged his departure. He went sadly enough.”

The woman paused here, and seemed to struggle with her voice against some choking sensation.

“Well?” questioned Monsieur Jacques.

Madame Gosner answered in a single sentence.

“He never came back!”

“Truly, he never did come back,” repeated Monsieur Jacques, with a strange smile.

“He was away a long time—no word came to us about him. We inquired of every one who had been in France, but no tidings. At last we believed him dead. Knowing that he had arrived in Paris, we sent a person, who knew him well, to get certain tidings of his fate. This person traced him to Versailles, learned that he entered the Grand Trianon, and remained there more than an hour. It was the palace in which that vile woman, Barry, lived. After that he returned to Paris, ate some supper at the house where he lodged, and went out for a walk. A man was waiting near the door, who joined him, and they went off together. That is all.”

“And you have never heard of him since?” questioned Monsieur Jacques.

“Not till last year. Then a letter reached me, written on a scrap of soiled paper, and dated at the Bastille. It was in his handwriting, and bore his signature; but it said little that I could understand. This much was certain. Years and years my husband had been shut up in the horrible place. There had been no crime, no charge—and his imprisonment threatened to be eternal. Sometimes prisoners were taken out of their subterranean dungeons, and permitted to breathe the air; but he had no such privilege. Day after day, month after month, year after year, he saw no one but his keeper, who seldom spoke, but was not devoid of pity. Once he had given him a scrap of paper; on this he pierced some letters with a pin; and after waiting months and months, got it carried out into the world by a man who——”

“Who was called to mend the ponderous locks of his dungeon. I was the man.”

“You, Monsieur Jacques—you?”

“I remember him well—a tall, thin man, with hair white as spun silk, and a beard falling down his bosom; the face white, and pure as an infant’s; the eyes luminous, even in the darkness of his dungeon. Was this like your husband, madame?”

“It was my husband, no doubt.”

“This I saw as the keeper left me for a single minute. Then the prisoner came eagerly toward me, his long white finger on his lips, his eyes burning and eager. Thrusting that paper into my hand, he whispered a name and an address. ‘Send it!’ he said. ‘For the love of God, send it!’ His hands shook, his face quivered, his teeth knocked together with affright, for he saw the jailor coming back, and feared him.

“I thrust the paper into my bosom, saying only, ‘I will,’ He could not answer, for the man was near, but instantly the fire in his eyes was quenched in tears; he crept back to his corner, and sat down, with both hands to his face, weeping.

“‘What was he saying?’ demanded the jailor, looking at me keenly. ‘I saw his lips move.’

“‘Did you?’ I answered, carelessly twisting a screw in its socket. ‘I did not observe, ask him.’

“My careless answer disarmed the man of his suspicions; but he did not leave me again for a moment; and when I asked the prisoner’s name, he answered, ‘We have no names here. This man has a number—that is all.’

“‘But how long has he been here?’ I asked.

“‘Since the year in which Louis the Fifteenth died,’ he said.

“The prisoner started up, and reached forth his hands imploringly, ‘Is the old king dead?’ he questioned. ‘Then she is queen! Will no one tell her that an innocent man suffers here? Is there no mercy in any human heart?’

“The jailor answered him by a heavy clang of the door, and a grinding noise of the lock I had just mended. I came away with the paper in my bosom, and sent it to the name whispered in my ear when it was given. It was the name of some curé in a town of Germany.”

“It was for me, that poor prisoner’s wife,” cried the woman, who had been listening with intense interest. “The curé sent it to me—and then I knew that my husband was alive, and in the Bastille. It was like a revelation from the grave.”

“It was that scrap of paper, pierced with pinholes, that brought you here?” said Monsieur Jacques. “It was to save him that you came to Paris?”

“Yes; in less than a week we set forth. Marguerite had almost forgotten her father; but she was restless to go in search of him. The little property we had was almost gone, but we turned it into money, and came away. Oh! it was a terrible undertaking. Day after day, I wandered about that grim building hoping, in a wild fashion, that some chance would give me sight of him—but nothing came of it. I knew that he was there, and the knowledge wounded the heart in my bosom; but in Paris I was helpless as in Germany. How would I get him from underneath that grim pile of stones? It was like beating myself against a rock. I went to men learned in the law; I wrote petitions, and gave money to have them presented to the king; I made vain efforts to get speech of him; but all was useless, our money melted away, my strength left me; from one place to another we were driven here, helpless and starving, and oh my God! he is in that hideous dungeon yet!”

“Take courage, my friend; it will not be forever. Do not let those poor hands fall so despondently in your lap. Better times are coming. All these terrible grievances will be laid before the king. He is not cruel; some day he will open the doors of that awful Bastille, and let the people look in. They are getting curious, impatient. No power can keep them much longer in the dark. I have seen it; they thought me a blacksmith, for I went in place of a man who had taught me something of his craft; for, madame, it is my pleasure to know everything, and, like the king, I have a taste for working in iron. I went over more than one of those hideous dungeons, and saw their inmates. What I saw was given to the clubs, and in that way to the people. They are learning all the secrets walled-in by that pile of stone. The knowledge ferments—let it work. By-and-by we shall know what it is to arouse millions of slaves to a knowledge that liberty exists.”

The two women looked at the strange man in supreme wonder; his eyes glowed, his figure drew itself up erectly; his right arm was extended, as if addressing an audience. The glow of a powerful enthusiasm was upon him.

The elder woman stood up, the food she had taken made her strong; this man’s enthusiasm extended itself to her.

“I have knelt this day in the street, only to be covered with mud,” she said. “I have worked, starved, entreated, that an innocent man might be taken from a dungeon worse than the grave, and all to no avail. Others suffer as I do; other women have seen their husbands buried alive, and have heard the cries of their own anguish mocked by the nobility, which stands between the people and their king. Tell me what to do, and if human will can accomplish anything, it shall be done. Marguerite, come hither.”

The young girl came at her mother’s bidding, an earnest light in her eyes, a faint glow on her face. Her father was in prison, her mother only an hour before had fainted from want of nourishment. She thought of this, and her gentle nature was aroused to profound sympathy. The mother took her hand, holding it firmly as she bent down and kissed the white forehead uplifted to her face.

“We have been selfish, my child,” she said. “In our own troubles we have forgotten others. What can two helpless women accomplish against wrongs that have grown strong under centuries of endurance? My child, in ourselves we are nothing; united with others equally unfortunate we may do much. France has wronged us terribly—it is my motherland. It was I who persuaded him to come and cast himself into dangers that seized upon him, as wild beasts snatch their prey. ‘The king has sent for you,’ I said. ‘The king is France.’ I was wrong, the king is not France—his people cannot reach him; his heart is good and generous, but who can appeal to it, standing so far off. Still, France is France, and this king is not the old one; he continues abuses, but does not originate them.”

Monsieur Jacques listened earnestly. He looked from madame to her daughter, in wonder. Their energy had enkindled a new idea in his ardent nature. He saw in it an element of strength that would be wielded with force when the time of redemption arrived. The power and pride of a Roman matron lay in that woman, who was lifted far above those with whom poverty forced her to associate. Her intellect was quick and grasping; she comprehended like a man, and felt like a woman—of such characters among men leaders are formed. How would it prove with her own sex? Could she control that subtle element? Would enthusiasm awake to the glance of her eyes, and ignorance follow her lead unquestioning?

Monsieur looked upon her as she stood, tall, naturally robust, and proud, flinging off all selfish weakness, and ready to suffer for her country, as she had already suffered for her husband, alas! in vain. Then he turned to Marguerite, fair and delicate as a lily; and saw in her beauty another spirit of power; for this man had but one grand idea—and that was “_Liberty!_”

“You think as she does?” he questioned, laying his hand upon her head solemnly, as if consecrating her.

“Let her think for me, I am too young. Where she goes, I will go; where she dies, I, too, will die!”

Her words were low and solemn; sweet as the rustle of living flowers, but resolute, too. The girl felt their import, though she did not as yet understand the magnitude of her concession.

“Those who dedicate themselves to liberty have no sex,” said Monsieur Jacques. “Men and women suffer alike; let them resist alike.”