THE MOB THAT stopped the way was produced, not by the expectation of seeing a man hanged, but by the contemplation of man who was already hanging. After a moment’s hindrance, the carriage proceeded on its way, passed through the crowd, went along the Rue St. Honore, and turning at the Rue des Bons Enfants, stopped at a low doorway.
When the door opened, two guards, assisted by the sergeant, received Bonancieux in their arms, and pushed him into a court; they then made him ascend a staircase, and placed him in an antechamber. All these operations were performed nearly mechanically, as far as he was concerned. He had walked as in a dream, he had seen things as through a mist; he had heard without understanding; and they might have executed him then without his making the slightest resistance, or uttering an appeal for mercy.
He remained passive on the bench, with his back resting against the wall, and his arms hanging down, on the very spot where his guards had placed him.
And yet, as, in looking around him, he saw nothing threatening, as no real danger was indicated, as the bench was comfortably stuffed, as the wall was covered with beautiful cordovan leather, and as long curtains of red damask, held by gilt brackets, hung before the windows, he became by degrees aware that his fears were exaggerated, and began to move his head from right to left, and vertically. At this motion, which no one opposed, he resumed a little courage, ventured to draw up one leg, and then the other; and, at last, supporting himself upon his hands, he raised himself on the bench, and found himself on his feet.
At this moment an officer of pleasant appearance opened a door, exchanged a few words with some person in the next room, and then, turning towards the prisoner, said—
“Is it you who are called Bonancieux?”
“Yes, sir,” stammered the mercer, more dead than alive, “at your service.”
“Enter!”
The officer bade the mercer precede him; and the latter, obeying without reply, entered a room where he appeared to be expected.
It was a large cabinet, the walls of which were furnished with offensive and defensive weapons—a close and suffocating room, in which there was already a fire, although it was scarcely yet the end of September. A square table, loaded with books and papers, and on which there was unrolled an immense plan of the town of Rochelle, occupied the middle of the apartment. In front of the chimney-piece there stood a man of middle height, with a proud and haughty air, piercing eyes, a large forehead, and an emaciated countenance, which was yet further elongated by an imperial, surmounted by a pair of moustaches.
Although this man was scarcely thirty-six or thirty-seven years old, both imperial and moustaches were beginning to grow gray. His appearance, except that he wore no sword, was military; and his buff leather boots, which were yet slightly covered with dust, pointed out that he had been on horseback during the day.
This individual was Armand-Jean Duplessis, Cardinal de Richelieu; not as he is represented—broken down like an old man, suffering like a martyr, his body shattered, his voice extinguished, buried in an enormous easy-chair, no longer living but by the power of his genius, and no longer supporting the struggle against Europe but by the eternal energy of his extraordinary mind—but such as he really was at this period; that is, a skilful and gallant cavalier, already feeble in body, but upheld by that moral force which made him one of the most unparalleled of mankind, and now preparing, after sustaining the Duc de Nevers in his duchy of Mantua, and taking Nismes, Castres, and Elzes, to drive the English from the Isle of Rhé, and to undertake the siege of La Rochelle.
At first sight, nothing denoted that it was the cardinal, and it was impossible for those who were unacquainted with his appearance to guess in whose presence they were.
The poor mercer remained standing at the door, whilst the eyes of the person we have been describing fixed themselves upon him as if they would penetrate his most secret thoughts.
“Is that this Bonancieux?” he demanded, after a moment’s pause.
“Yes, my lord!” replied the officer.
“Very well; give me those papers, and leave us.”
The officer took the papers indicated, gave them to him who asked for them, bowed to the very ground, and left the room.
In these papers Bonancieux recognised his examinations at the Bastile. From time to time the man by the chimney-piece lifted his eyes from the papers, and plunged them, like two poniards, into the very heart of the poor mercer.
At the end of ten minutes’ reading, and ten seconds’ scrutiny of Bonancieux, he had made up his mind.
“That head has never conspired,” murmured the cardinal; “but never mind, let us see.” Then he said slowly, “You are accused of high treason.”
“That is what they have already told me, my lord!” said Bonancieux, giving his interrogator the same title that he had heard the officer give him; “but I give you my oath, that I knew nothing about it.”
The cardinal suppressed a smile.
“You have conspired with your wife, with Madame de Chevreuse, and with my Lord Duke of Buckingham.”
“I admit, my lord,” replied the mercer, “I have heard all those names mentioned by her.”
“And on what occasion?”
“She said that the Cardinal de Richelieu had enticed the Duke of Buckingham to Paris, to destroy him and the queen.”
“She said that, did she?” cried the cardinal, with great violence.
“Yes, my lord; but I told her that she was wrong in saying such a thing, and that his eminence was incapable———”
“Hold your tongue—you are a fool!” replied the cardinal.
“That is exactly what my wife said to me, my lord.”
“Do you know who carried off your wife?”
“No, my lord.”
“But you had some suspicions?”
“Yes, my lord; but as these suspicions appeared to displease the commissary, I have them no longer.”
“Your wife has escaped: did you know that?”
“Not at the time, my lord; I learned it, since I have been in prison, from the commissary, who is a most amiable man.”
The cardinal suppressed another smile.
“Then you do not know what has become of your wife since her escape?”
“Not positively, my lord; but she has probably returned to the Louvre.”
“At one o’clock this morning she had not yet returned there.”
“Ah! good God! but what can have become of her?”
“Have no fear—it will soon be known; nothing escapes the cardinal; the cardinal knows everything.”
“In that case, my lord, do you believe that the cardinal will tell me what has become of my wife?”
“Perhaps so; but it is necessary, first, that you should tell me all you know in relation to the connection of your wife with