Francezka. Molly Elliot Seawell

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      The prison of the Temple was a huge gloomy building, fronting on two streets. Monsieur, the Grand Prieur de Vendôme, was governor of the prison, and had a whole wing of it fitted up very luxuriously for himself—for the Temple was the very pleasantest quarter of Paris, and the wits, the songs, the plays of the Temple have been celebrated ever since I knew Paris. Mirepoix was the deputy governor—there is always in these places a governor who draws the money and a deputy who does the work. Mirepoix was a great fool—I knew him well.

      When the carts rattled under the archway which led into the courtyard on which the great hall of the prison fronted, I had dismissed my coachman and was waiting to see what could be done to screen Mademoiselle Capello. A few minutes after I arrived, old Peter came, breathless and almost speechless. I told him to remain in the courtyard until I should deliver his young mistress into his hands.

      The sight of the black archway, the great, silent courtyard dimly lighted with lanterns—for night had fallen by that time—frightened the children. They stopped laughing and some of them began to whimper; the cobbler’s boy had never stopped howling a moment.

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      I stood close and saw Mademoiselle Francezka descend, and I made her a low bow, pointing to old Peter who stood close to me and made her a sign. She understood, and flashed me a tremulous little smile as she led the procession into the vast dark hall of the prison which opens on the courtyard.

      I went in too. It was but dimly lighted. Mirepoix was already there—a weak, irresolute man of fifty or thereabouts, completely off his head, listening first to Lafarge, then to Jacques Haret, and seemingly not knowing whether the giving of a theatrical performance without a license was a misdemeanor or high treason. He knew Jacques Haret, however, and his reputation or want of reputation, and was inclined to take Lafarge’s side of the case.

      The children were in a row, all shivering and trembling, except Francezka Capello, who stood with the pale beauty and virginal majesty of a Joan of Arc at the stake.

      Jacques Haret—commend me to the Jacques Harets of this world for knowing all their rights!—seeing what a muddlehead Mirepoix was, cried stoutly:

      “I demand to see the governor of the prison, the Grand Prieur de Vendôme.”

      Now, this was his right—but Mirepoix proceeded to argue the point with him. The Grand Prieur was having a supper party. The Grand Prieur must not be disturbed—and much else to the same purpose. But all he could get out of Jacques Haret was:

      “I demand to see the Grand Prieur. My great grandfather and his ancestor, Henri Quatre, were boon companions. My ancestor fought at Ivry under his ancestor, 32 and my family now possesses a letter from Henri Quatre to Jacques Haret, asking the loan of fifty crowns and a pair of breeches!”

      I could have wrung Jacques Haret’s neck for his persistence, but I could do nothing but stand and watch and fume, with the young girl’s tragic face before me, and old Peter breaking his heart in the courtyard.

      A messenger was sent for the Grand Prieur, and Jacques Haret consumed the intervening time in a wordy war with Mirepoix and Lafarge, and he got the better of both of them.

      I scarce thought the messenger had got the length of the prison, when the door opened, and the Grand Prieur appeared. He was a very old man, but still handsome and black-browed, very like his brother Marshal, the Duc de Vendôme—but not so dirty, nor did he sleep with dogs in his bed. On the contrary, he was given to luxury, made excellent verses, and was of polished manners.

      When he entered the hall I saw that he looked anxious, and peered eagerly into the half darkness that surrounded the company gathered there. Mirepoix plunged into the story, and to justify himself for interrupting the Grand Prieur’s supper party, one would have thought the twenty or so children were twenty malefactors and giving a theatrical performance without a license was the unpardonable sin.

      The Grand Prieur heard him through and then cried:

      “Good God! I thought it was an attempt on the king’s life! And for these brats you took me away from the supper table!”

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      Jacques Haret now came to the front, gravely reminding the Grand Prieur of the connection between their ancestors and the loan of the breeches. The Grand Prieur tried to scowl, but instead, burst out laughing. Jacques Haret then proceeded to give his account of the affair, including his preliminary interview with Madame Riano—or Peggy Kirkpatrick, as he called her—and he acted Peggy to the life so that even the frightened children laughed without understanding it; all laughed, in fact, except Mademoiselle Capello, who scowled tragically at the game made of her aunt. And not being deficient in sense, Jacques Haret took pretty good care not to hint that his star actress was Madame Riano’s niece. The climax came, however, when he apostrophized Lafarge as being the self-constituted protector of Madame Riano’s property. This brought down the house, and Lafarge stuttered:

      “I—I was not thinking of protecting Madame Riano—it was the majesty of the law that was being outraged—the king—”

      “Ah! You were protecting the king, then,” cried the Grand Prieur. “Well, I dare say the court and the army and the people and the church, among them, can do that without your help, Lafarge—and Jacques Haret—suppose, since you have spoiled my supper, you recompense me with a performance by this army of young criminals?”

      “With the greatest pleasure, Monsieur.”

      “And by that time, their parents will all be howling in the courtyard, and we can give the criminals each a coin, and let them go.”

      Some of the parents had indeed already arrived, and 34 word was sent to them that the children would be released as soon as they had given their play.

      There were some benches and tables against the walls—for here it was that the guard dined and supped—and these were hauled forth, some scenery was improvised with stools and sheets, and torches were procured to light up the vast dark place. The Grand Prieur had gone back to fetch his guests.

      “Come, Mademoiselle,” said Jacques Haret to Mademoiselle Capello, “you must act your best, and get us all out of this scrape.”

      For the first time I saw a look on Mademoiselle Capello’s face, indicating shame and humiliation at her position. She had not so far spoken a word that I knew of. She glanced toward me as much as to ask if she should agree—and I nodded. My one idea was to prevent a catastrophe before getting her into old Peter’s hands, and I dared not make any disturbance on her account.

      “But, Monsieur,” she said to Jacques Haret, “you must let Peter, my servant, come to me—he followed me on foot all the distance from the garden.”

      “I will! I will!”

      Jacques Haret ran out and fetched Peter, who was outside the door. Peter dashed in, ran up to Francezka and began to cry:

      “Oh, my darling little mistress! Oh, what will madame say to you? What will she do to you?”

      I gave him a look of warning, which checked his lamentations. He squeezed himself into a little place back of the improvised stage, and from there I watched his anxious face during what followed.

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      Jacques СКАЧАТЬ