fairs in Bretagne three or four days
after the arrest of Pontcalec and his three friends. Let us leave them
awhile at Nantes, in Dubois's toils, and see what was passing in Paris.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE BASTILLE.

And now, with the reader's permission, we will enter the Bastille--that
formidable building at which even the passing traveler trembled, and
which, to the whole neighborhood, was an annoyance and cause of alarm;
for often at night the cries of the unfortunate prisoners who were under
torture might be heard piercing the thick walls, so much so, that the
Duchesse de Lesdequieres once wrote to the governor, that, if he did not
prevent his patients from making such a noise, she should complain to
the king.

At this time, however, under the reign of Philippe d'Orleans, there were
no cries to be heard; the society was select, and too well bred to
disturb the repose of a lady.

In a room in the Du Coin tower, on the first floor, was a prisoner
alone; the room was large, and resembled an immense tomb lighted by two
windows, furnished with an unusual allowance of bars and irons. A
painted couch, two rough wooden chairs, and a black table, were the
whole furniture; the walls were covered with strange inscriptions, which
the prisoner consulted from time to time when he was overcome by ennui.

[Illustration: ABBE BRIGAUD.--Page 517.]

He had, however, been but one day in the Bastille, and yet already he
paced his vast chamber, examining the iron-barred doors, looking
through the grated windows, listening, sighing, waiting. This day, which
was Sunday, a pale sun silvered the clouds, and the prisoner watched,
with a feeling of inexpressible melancholy, the walkers on the
Boulevards. It was easy to see that every passer-by looked at the
Bastille with a feeling of terror, and of self-gratulation at not being
within its walls. A noise of bolts and creaking hinges drew the prisoner
from this sad occupation, and he saw the man enter before whom he had
been taken the day before. This man, about thirty years of age, with an
agreeable appearance and polite bearing, was the governor, M. de Launay,
father of that De Launay who died at his post in '89.

The prisoner, who recognized him, did not know how rare such visits
were.

"Monsieur de Chanlay," said the governor, bowing, "I come to know if you
have passed a good night, and are satisfied with the fare of the house
and the conduct of the employes"--thus M. de Launay,