The interruption to the story was caused by Gervais Monjoy observing that before us rose the ivy-covered ruins of an ancient schloss, which seemed to inform him, as he said, that in the interest which he took in his unfortunate love affair he had lost or mistaken the way.
We were on the brow of a high eminence, and far away in distance spread the snowy landscape. In the foreground were some leafless woods and ridges of rock, which like the ruins of the old castle shone in russet and pink, as the yellow and rosy dawn stole across the eastern quarter of the sky. A star or two still twinkled overhead, and one shone brightly through the gaping windows of the square keep of the old schloss.
"Morbleu, my friend! my mind has been so full of Isabelle that I have proved but an indifferent guide. We are on the road to Waldeck. That is the old castle of Count Heinrich, who slew Ferdinand of Brunswick at Fritzlar, in 1400. Let me consider. We are not very far from Zuschen, and a bend of the Lahn lies about two miles distant on our right. Fortunately here is a peasant. Halloa! my friend, who or what are you?" asked Monjoy, in German, as a man attired in an overcoat of some dark stuff trimmed with black wolf's fur, and wearing a cap and boots of deerskin, with a horn-hafted knife in his girdle, a musket in his hand, and attended by a dog, appeared by the wayside, where he was leisurely lighting his large pipe, and quietly surveying us while doing so.
"I am a woodman," he answered somewhat gruffly.
"You are abroad betimes, friend."
"Those who have their bread to earn in a country swarming with soldiers, who help themselves to the best of everything, have need to be so, Mein Herr."
"Do you know the Lahn?"
"Right well. I am Karl Karsseboom, a forester of the Baron Von Freyenthal. This path to the right will bring you to it straight. Two miles from this is the ford; the water is shallow and frozen; but the King of Prussia's Black Hussars are in a village on the other side, so be wary."
"My friend, we thank you," said Monjoy, as the peasant touched his fur cap respectfully, and, with his musket shouldered, strode off, not in search of game, as we thought then, but to fulfil his duty of scout, by acquainting some followers of Bourgneuf that I was to cross the Lahn at the frozen ford.
"I have seen you some fifteen miles or so on your way," said my companion, gradually reining in his horse, "and further would I go, monsieur, but for those plans of Dillenburg which I must lay before the maréchal, and which our friend Boisguiller must convey to head-quarters. Farewell: I have enjoyed much the few hours we have had of your society; but the best we can wish each other, if this war lasts, is that we may seldom or never meet again, as we shall only do so when bayonets are fixed and bullets are flying."
Monjoy shook my hand, and wheeling round his horse, rode off. I remained for some minutes watching his retiring figure, the shadow of which was thrown across the snow by the rising sun, in the light of which his silver epaulettes flashed and glittered, and in the clear frosty air the echoes of his horse's hoofs long came distinctly ringing to the car.
I felt depressed and lonely now, for the suavity of manner and gentleness of expression possessed by this young officer made him a singularly winning and pleasing companion.
How much more would I have been interested in him then, could I have foreseen his terrible future!
Turning, I rode slowly along the path indicated. It was distinctly visible even amid the snow, as day had dawned and the sun was up; and while I traversed it at an easy pace (my horse being indifferently frosted in the shoes, and halting at every step), with the reader's permission I will give him—may I add, her?—the sad sequel to the story of Monjoy, as I afterwards read it in the Mercure Français, and the Gazette de Bruxelles, in our camp at Warburg in Prussian Westphalia.
Monjoy returned to Paris with Maréchal de Contades, the Marquis de Voyer, the Comte de Luc, and other officers who declined for various admitted reasons to serve under the Duc de Broglie, and he lived there a somewhat secluded life, exerting himself sedulously in the study of his profession. But he could not fail to hear from time to time of her he had lost, and how the neglect, and what was worse, the querulous tyranny, even the blows, of M. d'Escombas she endured with meek and silent patience—a patience that galled Monjoy; for as year succeeded year she had become the mere nurse of a petulant and selfish old man.
"Many a good woman's life is no more cheerful," says a certain writer; "a spring of beauty and sunshine; a bitter disappointment, followed by pangs and frantic tears, and then a long, long and monotonous story of submission."
As yet such had been the tenor of the life of Isabelle, but never did she and Gervais meet, save once in the boxes of the Opera House of the Palais Royal—the same theatre which had been built of old by Cardinal Richelieu, and was burned down four years after Minden.
They were seated very near each other. She seemed wondrously pale and beautiful; she was clad in light blue silk, her delicate neck, her white taper arms, and her golden hair all glittering with diamonds—the badges of her wedded slavery.
Both were deeply agitated, but neither spoke, till Isabelle, unable to restrain her emotion, whispered to Monjoy behind her fan—
"I can read your secret in your eyes, my poor Gervais, and so will others if you do not retire."
"My secret?" he faltered.
"That you love me—love me still, though I am the slave of this Dives. Oh, my God! fly me—leave me to my misery—a misery known to myself and Heaven only!"
Almost suffocated by his emotions—the grief and tenderness the familiar sound of her voice and this pathetic appeal all served to kindle in his breast, he rose abruptly and quitted the theatre, followed by a threatening glance from d'Escombas.
That evening he wandered long about the streets, but an irresistible fatality always lured him towards the Rue de Tournon, where Isabelle resided.
The night came on, clear and cold; there was no moon, but the stars shone brightly, and he saw all the windows of the street glittering in their pale light, and those also in that noble façade of the palace of the Luxembourg which faces the Rue de Tournon, with its pavilions at each end, and the great cupola which rises above the entrance door.
While wandering here, a person jostled him with great rudeness, and turning with a hand on his sword, he encountered the remarkably forbidding and somewhat grizzled visage of——M. d'Escombas!
"Monsieur will apologize?" said Monjoy in a husky voice, after recovering from his surprise.
"Monsieur will do nothing of the kind," growled the old man. "What the devil brings you here, Gervais Monjoy? But it matters nothing to me—so you had better walk off, and take your hand from your sword, or parbleu! remember that I have the same cane for you that has made Madame d'Escombas wince more than once!"
Maddened by the insult, the man, his words and the inferences to be drawn from them, Monjoy prayed aloud—
"Great source of strength, assist me! Beware! old man," he added, "lest you drive me to despair. Remember that it is neither the sixth nor the seventh commandment in the Decalogue that may prevent me from punishing you as you deserve, and rescuing a poor victim from your tyranny."
M. d'Escombas, who was insanely jealous, grew white and livid with rage at these words; and, as he did not want for courage, laid his hand on his walking sword, for people still wore such weapons at night in the streets of Paris.
"Dare you say this to me?" he exclaimed.
"Oui, monsieur le scélérat, and more if I choose. A selfish father sells his timid daughter to a sordid wretch who buys her for rank. Was it not so, old man?"
"Granted—though she preferred a beggarly student who should have stuck to his Vauban and his Coehorn," said the other, grinding his teeth; "and what then?"
"Coldness and placid endurance of life—perhaps contentment, might have followed; but never happiness."
"But for what, you would say?"
"Your querulous tyranny—your unmanly cruelty, with the story of which all Paris rings. You have even dared to strike her—to strike her with your clenched hand, and even with your cane. Oh, malediction, my gentle Isabelle! and here, old man, I tell you you are a coward!"
"A coward—and your Isabelle! ha—we shall see what we shall see," exclaimed d'Escombas, boiling with ungovernable fury, as he swiftly drew his sword, and rushing upon Monjoy before the latter was aware, wounded him severely in the side.
This was too much for human endurance. The engineer drew his sword, and locking in, tossed up, or wrenched away the weapon of M. d'Escombas, which glittered in the starlight as the blade went twenty feet into the air. At the same moment the sword of Monjoy pierced the lungs of his adversary, who, as he whirled round in his agony before falling, received it a second time in his back. He fell on his face and expired without a groan, and Monjoy fled, full of horror, leaving his weapon in the street, behind him.
All that dreadful night he wandered about the streets, the quays, and bridges of Paris, haunted by what seemed a dream, a nightmare, to endure for ever; and when day dawned he repaired straight to a Commissary (an official similar to our justice of the peace) and declared upon oath "that he had slain M. d'Escombas in the Rue de Tournon; but in a fair duel, sword in hand, in self-defence."
The Commissary deplored the circumstance, but accepted the declaration, and perceiving that he was dreadfully agitated, gave him some wine and water.
"And now, dear Isabelle," he muttered wildly, "you are free—but by my hand—alas, by my hand!"
"How, monsieur," exclaimed the Commissary, sharply, looking up from his desk, and surveying the miserable Monjoy through his spectacles—"what's this you say?"
Monjoy remained silent, but grew, if possible, paler.
"Hah! mon Dieu!" exclaimed the Commissary, changing colour; "I remember now. Is it true that you were a discarded lover of Madame, when she was Mademoiselle du Platel, and a boarder with les dames de Notre Dame de Charité on du réfuge de St. Michel, in the Rue de St. Jacques?"
"Yes," moaned Monjoy; "it is too true."
"Detain M. Gervais Monjoy in custody; send for a surgeon; bring the body of M. d'Escombas here, and let us have it examined," said the other to his officials.
In less than an hour all this was done.
"How is this?" exclaimed the surgeon, the Commissary; and all present; "there is a sword wound in the back, and the sword is still remaining there!"
"He has been murdered!" said the Commissary, sternly.
"Dare you say so?" exclaimed Monjoy, with equal fury and indignation.
"In my official capacity, I may say anything," replied the commissary, with a grimace—"to La Force with the prisoner!"
Within another hour Monjoy found himself in that formidable prison—formerly the hotel of the Maréchal Duc de la Force—accused of murder. Maréchal de Contades was in disfavour at court; Maréchal de Broglie was still in Germany, where the Seven Years' War was raging as fiercely as ever; his aunt the Prioress was dead. Thus Monjoy had no friend in Paris, save one, for whom he dare not send; so he remained in his vault, sunk in misery, and careless for the future.
In this prison are detained until the day of trial those who are accused of crimes. It is a spacious edifice, divided into several departments, and having eight courts, all watched and guarded well.
At last, in the extremity of his misery. he sent for Isabelle, that he might, to her at least, absolve himself from the crime of which he was accused. She came clad in deep mourning, and the meeting between them was painful and affecting. But as it was known that they had been lovers in their youth, Paris was ready to believe the worst; and as the sordid M. du Platel and d'Escombas' kinsman, the Governor of the Conciergerie, cried "fire and sword" against them both, rumour succeeded in having Madame accused of being "art and part" in her husband's death. So she was arrested, and committed to a separate vault in La Force, one of the places named les Secrets in that formidable edifice, which is formed entirely of hewn stone and enormous bars of iron, and in the construction of which neither wood nor plaster are employed.
There they languished for many months without a trial, as it happened that just about this time the chief court of justice in France, the Parlement de Paris—without the full concurrence of which no criminal can be arraigned—was removed, first to Pontoise and thereafter to Soissons, on account of their severe proceedings against the Archbishop of Paris, who (to repress the disorderly lives of the people) had issued a pastoral letter "forbidding all priests and curs to administer the sacrament to any one, no matter of what rank, unless they could produce a certificate from their father confessor"—a pastoral which gave great offence to the court of the Most Christian king.
To be brief: when the Court ultimately assembled, poor Monjoy was brought to trial, and on being put to torture admitted that he was guilty of the murder in the Rue de Tournon, and consequently was sentenced to be broken alive upon the wheel.
When asked who were his accomplices, amidst torments the most excruciating, he persisted in affirming that he had none; that Madame d'Escombas was guiltless and pure as when she left her convent. French medical skill was brought to bear upon his quivering limbs, and then, maddened by agony, he continued deliriously to acknowledge himself guilty of the murder again and again; but on being questioned for the last time concerning Madame d'Escombas, he accused her too!
On this the windlass of the rack was instantly relaxed, and he fainted, with blood pouring from his mouth and nostrils.
When his keener agony was over, on his knees, before my old friend Père Celestine (once curé of St. Solidore, and now coadjutor Bishop of Paris), with tears of blood and agony the unhappy Monjoy retracted all that had been wrung from him under torture; but it was too late.
On his accusation and confession she too was tried, and sentenced to death, and then both were committed to the Conciergerie du Palais, and to the care of that grim governor, the kinsman of d'Escombas—he of whom Monjoy had such an instinctive dread of old.
The entrance to this frightful old prison is by a low and narrow door, over which might well be carved the well-known line from Dante's "Inferno."
Isabelle was conducted to the greffe or female prison, by that sombre vestibule which is lighted by lamps even at mid-day; but Monjoy was thrust, bleeding and mangled, perspiring in every limb with recent torture, into one of the old and dark dungeons of the Conciergerie, from whence, after a time, they were both conveyed in a tumbril, and clad in sackcloth, to the Place de Greve, where she was hanged by the neck, and he, after making a pathetic declaration of her innocence, underwent the dreadful death of being broken alive upon the wheel!
With his last breath he implored the executioner to see that a blue ribbon, some gift of happier years, which he wore round his neck, should be buried with him.
Such was the miserable fate of this young Frenchman who befriended me so much at Ysembourg, and whom I last saw galloping gallantly along the road from the old ruined schloss, with his epaulettes and gay uniform glittering in the morning sunshine.
And now, with a pardon for this digression, I return to my own more matter-of-fact story.