The Lions Whelp 55

The Lions Whelp 55

"Go home, my dear," he said softly. "All that can be done I will do,

and without delay. You believe in the God of your fathers, and you pray

to Him?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Then pray for Cluny Neville. I may speak, but it is God that setteth

the prisoner free. His blessing be on you. I am glad to have seen your

face, I am truly. A good-day to you!"

 

Matilda curtsied and went out. Her cheeks burned, her heart was flooded

with a thousand feelings. She marveled most at herself; all her scorn

had turned into respect, all her hatred into something very like

affection. Yet mingling with these new-born emotions was an intense

contempt for herself. "A nice Royalist you are, Matilda de Wick!" she

muttered angrily. "You went on your knees to the Regicide! You gave

him your cheek to kiss! You shed tears! You asked his pardon! You

contemptible woman, I am ashamed of you! The man is a wizard—he has a

charm from the devil—why did I go into his presence? I hope I may be

able to keep the secret of my own fall. I vow it is as deep as Eve’s!

I am mortified beyond words,—and if Cymlin knew, what volumes there

would be in his eyes and his mouth, and—his silence!"

 

And yet there was in her heart a strong belief that this time Cromwell’s

inquiries would be as effective as they were sure to be prompt. Indeed

the first thing the Protector did, was to dictate the following letter

to Mazarin:

 

 

"TO His EMINENCE CARDINAL MAZARIN,

 

"Sir:—In a manner most providential it has been made known to me that

Lord Neville is at this present moment in the Bastile prison. I know

not why my friends should be treated as enemies, seeing that I have been

faithful to you in all difficulties. Truly my business is now to speak

things that I will have understood. The danger is great, if you will be

sensible of it, unless Lord Neville be put at once in charge of those by

whom I send this message. For if any harm come to him, I will make

inquisition for his life—for every hair of his head that falls

wrongfully to the ground. And in regard to sending more troops to

Boulogne against the Spaniards, look not for them, unless, by the grace

of God and your orders, Lord Neville is presently, and without

hinderance, in England. Then, I will stand with you, and I do hope that

neither the cruelty, nor malice of any man will be able to make void our

agreement concerning the Spaniard; for as to the young man’s return, it

is the first count in it, and I shall—I must—see that he is restored to

that freedom of which he has been unjustly deprived. It cannot be

believed that your Eminency has had anything to do with this deed of

sheer wickedness, yet I must make mention of the jewels which

disappeared with Lord Neville, and the money, and the papers. As for

the two last items I make no demand, seeing that particular persons may

have spent the one and destroyed the other; but I have certain knowledge

that the jewels are in the possession of mademoiselle your Eminency’s

niece. I have some reluctance to write further about them, believing

that you will look more particularly than I can direct, into this

matter. By the hand of my personal friend, General Swaffham, I send

this; and in all requisites he will stand for

 

"Sir, "Your Eminency’s

"Most Humble Servant,

"OLIVER P."

 

 

When this letter was sealed, he sent for Israel, and telling him all

that he had heard, bade him take twelve of their own troop, go to Paris,

and bring back Cluny with them. Israel was very willing. He had always

believed Mazarin had, at least, guilty knowledge of Cluny’s murder; and

all he asked was, that his daughter might be kept in ignorance until

hope became a certainty, either of life or death.

 

Cromwell’s summons affected Mazarin like thunder out of a clear sky. He

had forgotten Lord Neville. It was necessary to bring to him the papers

relating to the mission on which he had come, and even then he was

confused, or else cleverly simulated confusion. But he had to do with a

man, in many respects, more inflexible than Cromwell.

 

"I will make inquiries," he said to Israel. "In two or three days—or a

week——"

 

"I must be on my way back to London, sir, in two or three days."

 

"I cannot be hurried,—I have much other business."

 

"I have only this business in Paris, sir; but it is a business of great

haste. This very hour, if it please your Eminence, I would make

inquiries at the Bastile."

 

"It does not please me. You must wait."

 

"Waiting is not in my commission, sir. I am to work, or to return to

London without an hour’s delay. Lord Neville is particularly dear to

his Highness; and if my inquiries meet not with attention,—on the

moment,—I am instructed to waste no time. We must then conclude the

envoy of the Commonwealth of England has been robbed and slain, and it

will be the duty of England to take redress at once."

 

"You talk beyond your commission."

 

"Within it, sir."

 

"Retire to the anteroom. They will serve you with bread and wine while

I make some inquiries."

 

"It is beyond my commission to eat or drink until I have had speech with

Lord Neville. I will wait in this presence, the authority of your

Eminence," and Israel let his sword drop and leaned upon it, gazing

steadfastly the while into the face of the Cardinal. The twelve

troopers with him, followed as one man, his attitude, and even Mazarin’s

carefully tutored composure could not long endure this silent battery of

determined hearts and fixed eyes. He gave the necessary order for the

release of Lord Cluny Neville,—"if such a prisoner was really in the

Bastile,"—and sending a body of his own Musketeers with it, directed

Israel to accompany them.

 

"These insolent, domineering English!" he muttered; "and this Cromwell,

by grace of the devil, their Protector! If I get not the better of them

yet, my name is not Mazarin. As for the young man, I meant not this long

punishment; I wanted only his papers. As for the jewels, I was not told

they came out of his bag,—I did suspect, but what then? I am too much

given to suspicions, and the jewels were rare and cheap, and Hortense

became them well. I will not give up the jewels—the man may go, but the

jewels? I fear they must go, also, or Spain will have her way. Cromwell

wants an excuse to withdraw, I will not give him it. And by Mary! I am

sorry for the young man. I meant not such injury to him; I must make

some atonement to the saints for it."

 

This sorrow, though brief and passing, was genuine; cruelty was perhaps

the one vice unnatural to Mazarin, and he was relieved in what he called

his conscience, when he heard that Lord Neville still lived,—if such

bare breathing could be called life. For the Bastile seemed to be the

Land of Forgetfulness. The Governor had so forgotten Cluny, that his

name called up no recollection. He did not know whether he was in the

prison or not. He did not know whether he was alive or dead. The head

gaoler also had forgotten. Men lost their identity within those walls.

The very books of the prison had forgotten Cluny. Their keeper grew

cross, and positive of Neville’s non-entering, as volume after volume

refused to give up his name. But Israel and his men, standing there so

determined and so silent, forced him to go back and back, until he came

to that fateful day when, before the dawning, the young man had been

driven within those terrible gates.

 

"On whose order?" asked Israel, speaking with sharp authority.

 

"On the order of his Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin," was the answer.

 

"I thought so;" then turning to the head gaoler he added, "you have the

order for release. We are in haste."

 

"Time is not counted here. We know not haste," was the answer.

 

"Then," said Israel, flaming into passion, "you must learn how to

hasten. I give you ten minutes to produce Lord Neville. After that

time, I shall return to his Eminence and report your refusal to obey

him."

 

The gaoler had never before been accosted in such language. As word by

word was translated to his intelligence, he manifested an unspeakable

terror. It was impossible for him to conceive the manner of man and the

strange authority that dared so to address the head gaoler of the

Bastile. He left the chamber at once, and within the time named there

were sounds heard which made all hearts stand still,—the slow movement

of feet hardly able to walk,—the dismal clangor of iron, and anon the

mournful sound of a human voice. But nothing could have prepared

Cluny’s comrades for the sight of their old companion. His tall form

was attenuated to the last point; his eyes, unaccustomed to much light,

would not at once respond, they looked as if they had lost vision; his

hair straggled unkempt over his shoulders, and the awful pallor of the

prison on his face and neck and hands was more ghastly than the pallor

of death. His clothing had decayed; it hung in shreds about his limbs;

but there was a glimmer of his old self in the pitiful effort he made,

as soon as conscious of human presence, to lift up his head and carry

himself without fear. An irrepressible movement of arms, a low wail of

pity, met him as he entered the room, and he looked before him, anxious,

intent, but not yet seeing anything distinctly.

 

"_Cluny! Cluny! Cluny!_" cried Israel; and then Cluny distinguished

the buff and steel uniforms, and knew who it was that called him. A

long, sharp cry of agony, wonder, joy, answered the call, and he fell

senseless into Israel’s arms.

 

They brought him wine, they lifted him to the open window, they laid

bare the skeleton form of his chest, they called him by name in voices

so full of love and pity that his soul perforce answered their

entreaties. Then the Governor offered him some clothing, but Israel put

it passionately away. They were worse than Babylonish garments in his

sight; he would not touch them. He asked only for a public litter, and

when it was procured, they laid Cluny in it, and his comrades bore him

through the streets of Paris to their lodging on the outskirts of the

city.

 

When they left the gates of the prison there was a large gathering of

men, and it increased as they proceeded,—a pitiful crowd, whose very

silence was the highest eloquence. For they understood. Cluny lay prone

and oblivious to their vision. They had seen him come from the Bastile.

He was dead, or dying, and these angry, weeping soldiers were his

comrades. They began to mutter, to exclaim, to voice their sympathy

more and more intelligibly. Women, praying and weeping audibly, joined

the procession, and Israel foresaw the possibility of trouble. He felt

that in some way order must be restored, and inspired by the wisdom

within, he raised his hands and in a loud, ringing voice, began the

favourite hymn of his troopers; and to the words they had been used to

sing in moments of triumphal help or deliverance they carried Cluny,

with the solemn order of a religious service, safely into their camp.

For when the hymn began, the crowd followed quietly, or dropped away, as

the stern men trod in military step to their majestic antiphony: