(1) It was about six o’clock the next morning that old Bernard, who had just finished dressing himself, looked out of the window of the little ground-floor room in the Palace of the Temple where he slept—for most of the personnel of the prison were housed there, and he indeed, a former servant of the Prince de Conti, had slept there for more years than he could count. The pale, reluctant winter dawn was on the courtyard and its shivering trees. It would be a chilly transit to his duties in the Tower.
As he was turning away, blowing on his fingers, he heard unusual sounds in the courtyard, and, after another glance through the window, he went out on to the perron and stood there in some astonishment.
A closed carriage—a berline—had just drawn in under the entrance and was coming to a standstill in the middle of the court. Immediately behind, with a great jangle of bits and trappings, came riding two and two a score or so of hussars. What on earth could this portend, at so early an hour? It must be something official, however, since the guard at the entry had admitted the cortège.
Even as Bernard stood there he heard himself hailed, and saw the sergeant of the guard running towards him and trying to attract his attention. A little behind him rode an officer.
“Holà, Bernard!” called out the sergeant. “You are just the man I want. Take M. le Capitaine Guibert to the Tower at once; he brings orders for the immediate transference of a prisoner. Here, mon Capitaine, is the very gaoler who has the care of those au secret.”
The officer dismounted without a word, threw the speaker the reins, and strode up the five steps to where the surprised old man awaited him. He was young, tall and handsome, suitable in every way to the bravery of his sky-blue pelisse heavily barred with silver, the fur-edged dolman of darker blue that hung from one shoulder, and the gaily embroidered sabretache that swung against his leg. But under the high, cord-wreathed shako his face looked impenetrably, almost unnaturally grave.
“If you will come this way, sir,” said Bernard a little nervously, and thereafter trotted along in front of him through the palace and the length of its frosty garden, perturbed in spirit, while the officer stalked behind him equally silent. They passed the guardhouse in the wall without comment. At the greffe in the Tower itself the hussar, with the same economy of language, presented an order, and said he wished to see the prisoner in question immediately. The guichetier, having read it through, raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and transcribed it carefully in a book. It was an order for the delivery of the person of Gaston de Saint-Chamans, ex-Duc de Trélan, known also as the Marquis de Kersaint.
“M. de Trélan is au secret—I expect you know that, captain,” he remarked when he had finished. “I hope there has been no dissatisfaction at the Tuileries? I assure you that every precaution is taken for his safe custody.”
The young officer made a gesture that might have meant anything, and prepared to follow his guide.
To mount that dark, winding staircase on a winter’s morning required a light. Bernard produced a torch and preceded the officer, whose sabre clanked on the steps as he followed him. Half way up, at one of the wickets, the old man paused, and turned to him. “You are taking away our most distinguished prisoner, Monsieur le Capitaine.”
“Yes,” replied the hussar. His mouth shut as if he did not intend to say more, and the old man went on again.
One sentry—they were of a corps of veterans—was plainly asleep, on the bench by the door, when they got up. His companion, pacing to and fro, shoved him with his foot, and he stood sleepily to attention as the officer passed. In another moment the nail-studded door stood open, and the young hussar, taking the torch from Bernard and motioning him back, went in, pushing the door to behind him.
The torch he held, conflicting with the daylight from the high window, showed him the man he had come for fast asleep on the little bed in the furthest corner. He went over to him, stood looking down at him a second or two, and then, with what looked like hesitation, put out a hand to wake him. But at that moment, roused by the light, the prisoner stirred.
(2)
Gaston had dreamt much that night, dreams commingled of sweet and sinister. Nearly always the menhirs had been in them, the Allée des Vieilles where Valentine had been miraculously restored to him, but they were strangely mixed with visions of Mirabel, where he and she had parted. He stood once more among the old stones, but she was not there; he was to meet her, he knew, at Mirabel, and the idea was sweet. Yet somehow the dream was sinister. . . .
And now—he was fully awake on the instant, in the fashion of a soldier and a commander. His first thought was—Hyde de Neuville . . . they had put forward the time . . . here was the pseudo-Republican officer he was to expect. He looked up at the hussar for a second or two—and all that fell away from him for ever. A man in peril is swift of apprehension. This officer was genuine.
“You are an early visitor, sir,” he said, raising himself on his elbow. “I may guess, may I not, that you do not come at this hour on any very agreeable errand?”
“General,” said the young man, speaking at length for the first time since he had entered the prison, “my errand is hateful. I . . . I am ashamed of the uniform I wear—but as long as I wear it I must obey. . . . Will you read that, Monsieur le Duc?” He held out, not the order he had shown to the guichetier, but another, and brought the torch a little nearer.
Gaston took the paper, and, still leaning on one elbow, studied it, and the vehement “Bonaparte” at the bottom, with the marks of the splutter of the pen. His eyebrows went up a trifle, but no other change came over his face.
“A little sudden,” he observed. “But after all . . . What time do you wish me to be ready?”
“At seven o’clock, General. It is now ten minutes after six.”
The Duc de Trélan returned the warrant. “The First Consul is somewhat given to sudden impulses,” he remarked. “As he grows older he will find that they are generally to be regretted. But I think that, after all, I misjudge him; for this was intended from the first. I have about fifty minutes then. Would you be so good, Monsieur, as to see if they could find me a priest while I am dressing; there may be one in captivity in the Temple.—No, do not give yourself the trouble; if old Bernard is there I will ask him myself. And you, Monsieur le Capitaine—shall I see you again?”
“I command the escort,” replied the young hussar, looking away.
“I will be ready for you then, in . . . forty-seven minutes,” said the Duc, his eyes on the watch he had drawn from beneath his pillow. “Perhaps you will be good enough to leave me your torch for the moment. The oil was finished in my lamp last night, and the illumination here is not very good, as you can see.”
The young officer looked round, saw a ring designed for that purpose on the wall, thrust the torch into it, drew himself up, made the captive a magnificent salute, and strode to the door.
Next moment the old gaoler looked in, mildly curious.
“Monsieur Bernard,” said the Duc, who was now sitting on the edge of the bed, “I have a particular favour to ask you. Can you contrive to heat me some shaving water within a quarter of an hour or so? I wish to be presentable this morning.”
“But certainly, only—Monsieur le Duc, what is it, so early? You are being transferred, I gathered?”
“Yes, Bernard—if you like to put it so. And besides the shaving water—and a better light to use it by—is there by chance a priest among the prisoners here, think you?”
“A priest!” exclaimed the old man, taken aback. “A priest . . . I don’t know—I don’t think so. But why do you want a . . . O Monseigneur!—it’s not that!”
“It is indeed,” said Gaston with a little smile. “Not altogether unexpected, my good Bernard.—Well, do your best to get me a priest. I have not much time; only about three-quarters of an hour.”
No, he had not much time. And perhaps it was best. He could not possibly say good-bye to Valentine now. Yesterday had been their farewell after all. Did this hurried execution mean that the First Consul had got wind of to-night’s rescue?
He dressed swiftly, but with attention to details, shaved with care when old Bernard, almost weeping, brought him the water and the tidings that no priest could so far be found; and, with only twenty-five minutes left, sat down to write his last letter to Valentine.
He had no little to say, but he wrote steadily and without difficulty, pausing only once or twice. When he had finished he took out from a pocket-case in his breast a little square of folded paper, somewhat worn, wrote on it three words and slipped it inside his letter. Then he folded, addressed and sealed the whole, kissed his wife’s name upon the superscription, and put it in the case. There was already another letter there.
And now, since he had taken from its place over his heart the amulet he always wore there, to give it back to the hand whence he had it, for the short time that heart had to beat it should beat against the symbol that was rather of loyalty than of love—but which love had nevertheless fashioned and given him. He took from the back of the chair the scarf he had so treasured, and put the end with the golden fleur-de-lys to his lips. For a moment, at the touch of what her fingers had wrought, a wave of anguish engulfed him. He gripped his hands hard behind his head, as it fell forward on the folds of the scarf across the table. O, not to have to leave her . . . even to see her once more, only once!
It was short, that agony. Gaston de Trélan had faced it many times these last few days. He rose, fastening the scar............