The Banished Man/Volume 2/Chapter 6
"Huge,
"Grey mouldering ruins swell, and wide o'ercast
"The solitary landscape, hills and woods
"And boundless wilds."
DYER.
THE ancient and immense pile of building called the castle of Vaudrecour, had once been a strong fortress, built originally to guard the south-eastern boundary of the province of Britanny, while it yet belonged to its native princes; but Louis the Eleventh, in his frequent at attempts to possess himself of that great fief, had taken this chateau, and it became nominally part of his dominions. Buried among woods, and a wild tract of mountainous country, it suited the gloomy disposition of that sullen and ferocious tyrant; and he here had acted many of those tragedies which rendered him the terror of his own abject and insulted people; while he lay in wait to gain farther advantages over the duke of Bretagne; and depopulated the borders by suffering, and even promoting, among his vassals, innumerable atrocities against the inhabitants. It was fortified by all the skill of that age, aided by sever devices dictated by his own terrors; and many vestiges of these precautions remained, giving to the exterior of the building an appearance more menacing and horrid than such fabricks usually wear, even when they are more entire than Vaudrecour now was: for much of it had fallen to decay though many parts yet retained their gothic horrors unimpaired. A small river had once filled the triple moat that had surrounded it, and yet ran round the whole castle, stealing away almost unperceived among reeds and bushes, till it was lost in the woods; but in wet seasons its original passage being choaked by masses of the fallen ruins, the stream spread itself over the flatter ground, and made an almost impassable morass on that side from whence D'Alonville surveyed it.
Charles the Eighth, who had little reason to be delighted with any place which had been the theatre of his father's domestic caprices and cruelties, gave the castle, and its domain, to Louis d'Amboise; and it descended from that family to the family of De Touranges in the reign of Louis the Thirteenth. Some of its various lords had occasionally resided at it; for the domain around it was extensive, and the power of its possessor so great, as to be gratifying to that spirit of tyranny which high birth and great possessions are too apt to encourage. The present Marquis De Touranges had but seldom seen it, having been there only twice with large parties of his friends, for the purpose of passing the festival of St. Hubert*, in a country abounding with game; but his feudal rights (and in Britanny les droits du Seigneur were particularly absurd and oppressive), had unfortunately been insisted upon with too much rigour by the persons who were entrusted with the management of his affairs in this province, which had raised the resentment of the peasantry around him, though he was himself no otherwise to blame than in not preventing that abuse, which is almost always the consequence when power is delegated to the mercenary and ignorant.
The distance, however, at which this castle was from any considerable town, its gloomy obscurity, situated as it was among woody hills, and a vague notion that it was yet possible to render it a place of security if he could assemble in it a number of his friends, were the considerations that induced the present Marquis de Touranges to resort thither, and to make it the secret rendezvous of his party.
How far this scheme had succeeded, D'Alonville had no means of discovering from the outward appearance of the building; for the only animated beings he saw near it were the rooks and daws, who were busy in building among the broken battlements and surrounding trees; or the grey owl, which skimmed along the outward wall on her evening search for food. The other sides of the building might, he thought, offer some signals less discouraging. He arose to find his way among the trees, when having gone about fifty yards, he saw between the stems of those before him, something move, which seemed to be a human creature; but of what description he could not immediately discover. He approached, however; but still this equivocal shape altered not its pace, nor seemed to heed him, though he was now near enough to discern that it was a woman. She appeared old and decrepit, and as if labouring under the weight of something she carried. D'Alonville who imagined this was a neighbouring peasant, of whom he might venture to ask some questions without any fear of betraying himself, now spoke to her; but she moved on the same pace, without noticing him—he stepped before, and stopped her. She looked up, and, within a sort of black cowl, discovered a countenance so extremely hideous, that D'Alonville started back as if he had beheld a spectre. Had he been read in Shakespeare he must have exclaimed,
"How now, you secret, black, and midnight hag,
"What is't you do?—
D'Alonville's mode of address was less abrupt, but the withered crone seemed offended at it; and, instead of replying to his question, asked him, in a voice that made him shudder, what he would have? To this question he deliberated a moment what to answer, while the beldame added, in a mumbling hollow voice, and in the dialect of the country, "Go not to the castle." "Not go!" exclaimed D'Alonville, who was surprised by this unexpected by this unexpected charge. "No," replied the hag, in a still more terrific voice, "it will not answer your purpose." She moved slowly on, but D'Alonville, who was thrown entirely off his guard, again stopped her, and repeating, "Not answer my purpose?" added, "Do you know me, then?" "Know you," answered the witch, nodding her head, "Aye, aye, I know you." "You know, then" said D'Alonville, "for what purpose I am come?" He checked himself, recollecting that it was highly improbable such a person could know. In the mean while the old woman pursued her way: and D'Alonville looking after her, as slowly she passed among the trees, almost persuaded himself that he should see the ground open, and this frightful apparition sink into it. However, she disappeared, not supernaturally, but was lost in a part of the wood which yew and fir-trees rendered entirely dark.
The black huntsman* in the forest of Fontainbleau, whose remonstrance of "Amendez vous" is said to have shaken the fearless heart of Henry the Fourth, or the spectre which seized the bridle of Charles the Sixth in the wood of Mans, and warned him not to advance, crying, in a hoarse and threatening voice, "Arete Roi, ou vas tu?* " were neither of them more dreadful to those who saw, of fancied they saw them, than was to D'Alonville the fearful being who hardly seemed an inhabitant of this world.
But it was not growing late; and D'Alonville, when he lost sight of her, paused to consider what he should do.—A moment's reflexion made him ashamed of having been more alarmed by the squalid and distorted figure of an helpless old woman, than he had ever felt himself amidst the hottest action during his short campaign; and, as if to make his peace with himself, he stepped forward, resolving to enter the castle, where he was persuaded there must be inhabitants. If they were his friends his solicitude would be at an end; if otherwise, he could easily dissimulate, as he had hitherto done, his real purpose. He crossed the morass, therefore, on some broad and rugged stones, which seemed to have been brought from the ruinous part of the building for that purpose and entered over a draw-bridge, which had long forgotten its original destination, for the chains were gone: it led him under a gateway which had formerly been secured by a portcullis on one side, and on the other by a cauldron, from whence boiling water, or lead, might have been thrown on the besiegers. The iron work however, was torn away, and the walls from whence it had been force, left in ruins, which threatened him as he passed under them; while he saw with some surprise the unguarded state in which all this remained, and feared that his friends had failed of establishing here their general assembly. The dead silence that reigned throughout, confirmed these fears. He crossed the second moat by another draw-bridge, and came into the area of the castle; of the strength and magnitude of which he had till then had no idea. The same marks of degradation appeared about this entrance, as he had remarked at the gate-way. A stone porch was closed towards the internal part of the building by a massy door, which had been covered with plates and spikes of iron. Some of these had been torn off lately, and the door broken by the force that had been used. The immense hall into which this led him, was so obscure from the great height, its oak-beams blackened by time, and its high and narrow windows, that it was with difficulty he could make out the objects with which he was surrounded: in some places the broken brick floor was strewn with pieces of those gigantic statues, some of which still remained entire, on a kind of cornice half was up the sides of the hall; and these, which had been thrown down and broken, seemed to have been removed for the sake of the brass and iron armour they had supported. Two or three iron helmets, an immense leathern shield, lined and studded with brass, and a long and heavy iron lance, were scattered on the floor. D'Alonville, as he looked around him, thought he had never seen a place so calculated to impress terror; and though personal fear affected him but little, he could not help being sensible of dread of another sort. He thought, from what he saw, that it was but too probable his friends had been driven from the castle, that it had been plundered by the people of the country of whatever they found useful to them, and that the old woman, who seemed to be carrying off something herself, meant no more by the warning she had given him, than to deter him from going thither, to share the spoils which yet remained, which she, perhaps, supposed to be his purpose.
Though every moment gave new strength to these unwelcome conjectures, D'Alonville would not give up the search; but as it was growing dark it was time to be satisfied, for he found no great temptation to pass the night in this comfortless abode. On the side of the hall opposite to him, he saw an open door; it led to a long cloister, lighted by narrow windows, which looked into a court so surrounded by high buildings, that it was almost as obscure as the place he was in; but he could just distinguish it to be the burying ground of the castle; and against the opposite wall was a monument and a cross; two or three other tombs, as it should seem of inferior magificence, were near it; but they were ancient, and half hidden by ivy. The contemplation of so gloomy a place was not much calculated to animate the wearied spirits of the anxious wanderer; he turned from it, and was about to go back to the hall, and from thence in search of other apartments, when he thought he heard a noise at the end of the cloister; it seemed at first, to be a low murmur, as of some person speaking—but listening again, he fancied, the second time, it was not a human voice, but rather, that of some animal, he supposed a dog. The place from whence it proceeded was so nearly dark, that he could distinguish nothing; but the low plaintive noise, like that a dog makes who is shut out from following his master, was now more distinct—He stepped eagerly forward, for he thought he had a clue to guide him to some human being; but his way was impeded by something which he did not perceive till his feet struck against it—he stooped to examine what it was, and shuddering, recoiled from the clay-cold touch of a corpse. Hardly proof against the encreasing horrors that surrounded him, he was almost involuntarily retreating towards the hall, when again a cry from the dog, and an impatient, though faint bark, as if the creature asked his assistance, determined him to discover where it was confined: a door was visible a few steps farther, by the light which came through the crevices; he stepped cautiously along, fearful of treading on the dead body, or on another, and at length reached the door—he listened while he felt about for the lock—and heard the dog again, who now scratched against the door, and repeated the mournful noise he had heard before; he found the lock, and with difficulty pushed the door open. He saw an almost circular room, which admitted light only from above; in it was one of those cages, in which it is said Louis the Eleventh was accustomed to confine the miserable objects of his revenge; and around it were several ancient machines of iron and wood, which D'Alonville took for the instruments of torture he had often heard of, but had never before seen. On the opposite side was a large hole in the pavement resembling the mouth of a well. The dog, who was so weak he could hardly move, came fawning towards D'Alonville as soon as he appeared; then crawled to the brink of this hideous chasm, and looking down, cried in a voice of distress; then again staggered towards D'Alonville, and again seemed to implore his assistance. He advanced and looked into the dark gulph; and it now occurred to him, that this was an oubliette*, a kind of dungeon which he had often heard described; and it now struck him, that his friends had been pursued and surprised, and that the dead body he had found, as well as the master of this faithful animal, were among the victims who had perished in consequence of this discovery—perhaps one of them might be De Touranges, or St. Remi. His blood ran cold as he canvassed these sad possibilities, and he stood for some moments petrified with horror—In the mean time, the dog continued his importunities; till at length the poor animal, as if it gave itself up to despair, sighed deeply, and lay down; his head hanging almost over the brink of the pit. When it was thus calm, D'Alonville listened earnestly to hear if there was any noise within the gulph, for some living creature might be there: he fancied that he heard a low and tremulous groan:—he threw himself on the pavement, for the purpose of hearing more distinctly; and was soon assured, that some being existed within this frightful cavity. He called aloud, applying his mouth close to its edge—"Is any one within this dungeon?"—For some time his voice only returned to him in sullen echoes. He repeated the question yet louder; and listening with the most anxious attention, he heard an hollow and almost inarticulate sound from the dark bowels of the vault, "I die—help me for the love of God—It will be soon too late."
Animated by the humane hope of rescuing a fellow creature from a death so deplorable, D'Alonville no longer thought of himself; but collecting all his presence of mind, he again loudly demanded, what help he could give; and if the oubliette was very deep? by the distance from whence the voice seemed to come, he hoped it was not. The encreasing darkness made him dread lest it would be impossible to rescue the wretched prisoner that night; and he seemed to be so exhausted that it was improbable he should live till morning. D'Alonville looked about to see if there was any thing he could let down; and a long coil of rope, probably the same as been used to bury the miserable being who implored his assistance, lay not far from the jaws of this grave of the living. D'Alonville asked, if he believed he had strength enough to help himself with it to ascend. The unfortunate wretch who was roused to exertion by this hope of deliverance, answered, that he though he could: But D'Alonville doubting it, had the precaution to form a strong loop at one end, and to tie the other to a large iron ring which projected from the wall; for he feared his own strength would be unequal to the weight. The wretched man, exhausted as he had before appeared, seemed to have regained a portion of resolution; he secured the rope round him—D'Alonville exerted his whole force; and with incredible efforts he found he had got the unhappy sufferer so high, that he supported himself with his hands and knees against the rugged stones towards the mouth of the dungeon, where it was narrower than below. It would be difficult to describe what were the sensations of D'Alonville when he saw moving beneath him a human being whom he had thus rescued from destruction. Another effort brought him to the brink of the cavern—he stepped upon it—he was in safety—but he leaned against his benefactor, and, unable to speak, fainted away.
D'Alonville recollected, that not knowing whither he was going, or how he was to fare, and very certain that he should be out all night, he had put a small bottle of cordial into his pocket at his leaving Merol, with a piece of bread. He endeavoured to make the apparently dying man swallow a few drops of the liquid; and in some minutes he revived; but he appeared equally incapable of giving any account how he came into that place, or of moving from it; yet the strange circumstances around him, and a crowd of frightful possibilities that crowded into his thoughts, made D'Alonville believe it more than time to attend to his own safety, as well as that of the poor creature with him; who appeared (though nothing could be judged from his dress, for he had only a shirt and hussars on) to be a man of inferior rank. In about a quarter of an hour he was enough recovered to relate, in a weak and broken voice, that he had been gard de chasse to the Marquis de Touranges—but having said so, he stopped, as if afraid of proceeding.—D'Alonville re-assured him, by protesting that he was the friend of the Marquis, and had come thither to meet him, and the Abbé St. Remi. Thus re-assured, the poor man, endeavouring again to recollect and explain himself, went on to relate, that he had been left with another huntsman and two women servants in the care of the castle, where they remained long unmolested, as they did not attempt to check the peasants in their depredations on the game, and the woods of their lord, which would have been to no purpose. That about two months before, they were surprised by the return of the Marquis, whom they had believed dead: that he concealed himself in the castle, occasionally, for some time, and many of his friends resorted to him by night; but that about ten days, or a fortnight before, some accident discovered their rendezvous to the municipality of Merol; who surrounded the castle, and took many prisoners, whom they carried away.
"And were your Lord, and the Abbé de St. Remi, in the number of these prisoners?" enquired D'Alonville. "I believe they escaped," replied the man; "but the confusion was so great that I do not certainly know. As I passed among the crowd without being noticed I remained in the castle five or six days afterwards, concealing myself as well as I could, and expecting a return of the officers; but I knew not whither to go; and had no other means of subsistence."
D'Alonville found something obscure and confused in this part of the poor man's account; but in such a state, great precision could not have been expected, even if he had not been conscious; as perhaps he might be, that there was something to hide.
After some hesitation, as if to recover his recollection, he proceeded—
"While I was in hourly fear of being taken prisoner too, Sir, the peasants of the two small bourgs of St. Etienne, and la Chapelle du Bois, which are within two leagues, assembled in a body, and came to plunder the castle. I opposed them with two or three other persons whom I procured to stay with me; but we were overpowered by numbers. One of my companions was killed, and they threw me into the dungeon in revenge for the trouble I had given them; telling me, that I should stay there a day or two to see how I liked the place, where my ci-devant lord had it in his power to condemn to death any one who offended him. It is two days since I have been there. I have heard them since about the castle, and I exhausted myself in imploring their mercy in vain. They came not; and had you not found me by means of my faithful Diane, I must very soon have perished."
Though D'Alonville, amidst the terrifying circumstance, and the inevitable confusion of his own mind, thought he perceived that the account thus given was not strictly true; it was now no time to controvert its veracity—all hopes of rejoining his friends here were at an end; and nothing remained to be done but to take his departure as soon as possible, from a scene of desolation and murder, which the most undaunted heart could not contemplate without shrinking. The miserable shivering wretch, so recently rescued from the grave, where he had been buried alive, implored his protector not to forsake him; and the humanity of D'Alonville was too much awakened, to allow him to think of consulting merely his own safety, without attending to that of this unfortunate being. The idea of passing a night on the brink of the hideous cavity from whence this poor sufferer had arisen, and among the damps issuing from a chain of subterraneous vaults into which it led, with a dead body at the door, was extremely uncomfortable; and D'Alonville asked, if there was no part of the castle, where they could be less annoyed by these horrors; for to quit it before the break of day would have been hardly practicable, even if the wretched man had been able to set out, which he was not. Tho' much restored, he was still feeble and trembling, the powers of his mind were evidently alienated by the fear and famine he had suffered, and his spirits were so entirely depressed, that he clung to D'Alonville with the imbecility of age or infancy.
A dead silence followed the questions D'Alonville had been asking; the man, quite exhausted, had thrown himself at his length on the pavement; his dog, resting his head on the knees of his master, seemed to be content that he had found him, and ready to share his fate. The encreasing obscurity of evening gave dreariness to every object; and what faint light there was, falling from the roof of this sepulchral like room, on the ghastly countenance, and emaciated form of the man, and the instruments of imprisonment and torture that were round the walls, made D'Alonville think it the most dreadful place he had ever been in, and this, the most terrible period of his life, since the hour when he apprehended the death of his father, without having the power of assisting him. That native courage and indifference to personal inconvenience, which had then supported him, were still the same; but he had no longer the same motives for their exertion. Discouraged not only by having lost sight of his friends, but by the fear of their having fallen into the hands of their persecutors, baffled in his generous hopes of serving and saving De Touranges, and seeing but little probability even of returning to England, or to Flanders, he would have sunk into despondence, had he not roused himself by the recollection of his father's last injunction, and disdained to give up to the pilfering peasantry of an obscure district, a life which might yet be honourably lost in that service to which it had originally been dedicated.
The half dead object on whom he looked with mingled emotions of pity and horror, threatened to be a very dangerous companion to him in returning to Merol, for it was very likely he might be known to be a very dangerous companion to him in returning to Merol, for it was very likely he might be know as a servant of the Marquis—yet to Merol it seemed necessary to return. D'Alonville, after some meditation, desired the man to recollect if he had no means of striking a light and whether the castle did not afford some kind of food which would give him the strength to quit it. Thus urged, self-preservation once more awakened the man to some activity. He said, he believed that he could find means to strike a light, but he did not imagine that the plunderers, who had been for so long time in possession of the castle, had left any thing eatable within its walls.
D'Alonville now assisted him to rise, and bid him lean on his arm, while they explored, amid the almost total darkness that now surrounded them, the passages and avenues of this gloomy building.
CHAP.