Maitre Cornelius

Thetorconnier

Cornelius Hoogworst, one of the richest merchants in Ghent, having drawn upon himself the enmity of Charles, Duke of Burgundy, found refuge and protection at the court of Louis XI.  The king was conscious of the advantages he could gain from a man connected with all the principal commercial houses of Flanders, Venice, and the Levant; he naturalized, ennobled, and flattered Maitre Cornelius; all of which was rarely done by Louis XI.  The monarch pleased the Fleming as much as the Fleming pleased the monarch.  Wily, distrustful, and miserly; equally politic, equally learned; superior, both of them, to their epoch; understanding each other marvellously; they discarded and resumed with equal facility, the one his conscience, the other his religion; they loved the same Virgin, one by conviction, the other by policy; in short, if we may believe the jealous tales of Olivier de Daim and Tristan, the king went to the house of the Fleming for those diversions with which King Louis XI. diverted himself.  History has taken care to transmit to our knowledge the licentious tastes of a monarch who was not averse to debauchery.  The old Fleming found, no doubt, both pleasure and profit in lending himself to the capricious pleasures of his royal client.

Cornelius had now lived nine years in the city of Tours.  During those years extraordinary events had happened in his house, which had made him the object of general execration.  On his first arrival, he had spent considerable sums in order to put the treasures he brought with him in safety.  The strange inventions made for him secretly by the locksmiths of the town, the curious precautions taken in bringing those locksmiths to his house in a way to compel their silence, were long the subject of countless tales which enlivened the evening gatherings of the city.  These singular artifices on the part of the old man made every one suppose him the possessor of Oriental riches.  Consequently the narrators of that region—­the home of the tale in France—­built rooms full of gold and precious tones in the Fleming’s house, not omitting to attribute all this fabulous wealth to compacts with Magic.

Maitre Cornelius had brought with him from Ghent two Flemish valets, an old woman, and a young apprentice; the latter, a youth with a gentle, pleasing face, served him as secretary, cashier, factotum, and courier.  During the first year of his settlement in Tours, a robbery of considerable amount took place in his house, and judicial inquiry showed that the crime must have been committed by one of its inmates.  The old miser had his two valets and the secretary put in prison.  The young man was feeble and he died under the sufferings of the “question” protesting his innocence.  The valets confessed the crime to escape torture; but when the judge required them to say where the stolen property could be found, they kept silence, were again put to the torture, judged, condemned, and hanged.  On their way to the scaffold they declared themselves innocent, according to the custom of all persons about to be executed.

The city of Tours talked much of this singular affair; but the criminals were Flemish, and the interest felt in their unhappy fate soon evaporated.  In those days wars and seditions furnished endless excitements, and the drama of each day eclipsed that of the night before.  More grieved by the loss he had met with than by the death of his three servants, Maitre Cornelius lived alone in his house with the old Flemish woman, his sister.  He obtained permission from the king to use state couriers for his private affairs, sold his mules to a muleteer of the neighborhood, and lived from that moment in the deepest solitude, seeing no one but the king, doing his business by means of Jews, who, shrewd calculators, served him well in order to gain his all-powerful protection.

Some time after this affair, the king himself procured for his old “torconnier” a young orphan in whom he took an interest.  Louis XI. called Maitre Cornelius familiarly by that obsolete term, which, under the reign of Saint-Louis, meant a usurer, a collector of imposts, a man who pressed others by violent means.  The epithet, “tortionnaire,” which remains to this day in our legal phraseology, explains the old word torconnier, which we often find spelt “tortionneur.”  The poor young orphan devoted himself carefully to the affairs of the old Fleming, pleased him much, and was soon high in his good graces.  During a winter’s night, certain diamonds deposited with Maitre Cornelius by the King of England as security for a sum of a hundred thousand crowns were stolen, and suspicion, of course, fell on the orphan.  Louis XI. was all the more severe because he had answered for the youth’s fidelity.  After a very brief and summary examination by the grand provost, the unfortunate secretary was hanged.  After that no one dared for a long time to learn the arts of banking and exchange from Maitre Cornelius.

In course of time, however, two young men of the town, Touraineans, —­men of honor, and eager to make their fortunes,—­took service with the silversmith.  Robberies coincided with the admission of the two young men into the house.  The circumstances of these crimes, the manner in which they were perpetrated, showed plainly that the robbers had secret communication with its inmates.  Become by this time more than ever suspicious and vindictive, the old Fleming laid the matter before Louis XI., who placed it in the hands of his grand provost.  A trial was promptly had and promptly ended.  The inhabitants of Tours blamed Tristan l’Hermite secretly for unseemly haste.  Guilty or not guilty, the young Touraineans were looked upon as victims, and Cornelius as an executioner.  The two families thus thrown into mourning were much respected; their complaints obtained a hearing, and little by little it came to be believed that all the victims whom the king’s silversmith had sent to the scaffold were innocent.  Some persons declared that the cruel miser imitated the king, and sought to put terror and gibbets between himself and his fellow-men; others said that he had never been robbed at all,—­that these melancholy executions were the result of cool calculations, and that their real object was to relieve him of all fear for his treasure.

The first effect of these rumors was to isolate Maitre Cornelius.  The Touraineans treated him like a leper, called him the “tortionnaire,” and named his house Malemaison.  If the Fleming had found strangers to the town bold enough to enter it, the inhabitants would have warned them against doing so.  The most favorable opinion of Maitre Cornelius was that of persons who thought him merely baneful.  Some he inspired with instinctive terror; others he impressed with the deep respect that most men feel for limitless power and money, while to a few he certainly possessed the attraction of mystery.  His way of life, his countenance, and the favor of the king, justified all the tales of which he had now become the subject.

Cornelius travelled much in foreign lands after the death of his persecutor, the Duke of Burgundy; and during his absence the king caused his premises to be guarded by a detachment of his own Scottish guard.  Such royal solicitude made the courtiers believe that the old miser had bequeathed his property to Louis XI.  When at home, the torconnier went out but little; but the lords of the court paid him frequent visits.  He lent them money rather liberally, though capricious in his manner of doing so.  On certain days he refused to give them a penny; the next day he would offer them large sums,—­always at high interest and on good security.  A good Catholic, he went regularly to the services, always attending the earliest mass at Saint-Martin; and as he had purchased there, as elsewhere, a chapel in perpetuity, he was separated even in church from other Christians.  A popular proverb of that day, long remembered in Tours, was the saying:  “You passed in front of the Fleming; ill-luck will happen to you.”  Passing in front of the Fleming explained all sudden pains and evils, involuntary sadness, ill-turns of fortune among the Touraineans.  Even at court most persons attributed to Cornelius that fatal influence which Italian, Spanish, and Asiatic superstition has called the “evil eye.”  Without the terrible power of Louis XI., which was stretched like a mantle over that house, the populace, on the slightest opportunity, would have demolished La Malemaison, that “evil house” in the rue du Murier.  And yet Cornelius had been the first to plant mulberries in Tours, and the Touraineans at that time regarded him as their good genius.  Who shall reckon on popular favor!

A few seigneurs having met Maitre Cornelius on his journeys out of France were surprised at his friendliness and good-humor.  At Tours he was gloomy and absorbed, yet always he returned there.  Some inexplicable power brought him back to his dismal house in the rue du Murier.  Like a snail, whose life is so firmly attached to its shell, he admitted to the king that he was never at ease except under the bolts and behind the vermiculated stones of his little bastille; yet he knew very well that whenever Louis XI. died, the place would be the most dangerous spot on earth for him.

“The devil is amusing himself at the expense of our crony, the torconnier,” said Louis XI. to his barber, a few days before the festival of All-Saints.  “He says he has been robbed again, but he can’t hang anybody this time unless he hangs himself.  The old vagabond came and asked me if, by chance, I had carried off a string of rubies he wanted to sell me.  ‘Pasques-Dieu!  I don’t steal what I can take,’ I said to him.”

“Was he frightened?” asked the barber.

“Misers are afraid of only one thing,” replied the king.  “My crony the torconnier knows very well that I shall not plunder him unless for good reason; otherwise I should be unjust, and I have never done anything but what is just and necessary.”

“And yet that old brigand overcharges you,” said the barber.

“You wish he did, don’t you?” replied the king, with the malicious look at his barber.

“Ventre-Mahom, sire, the inheritance would be a fine one between you and the devil!”

“There, there!” said the king, “don’t put bad ideas into my head.  My crony is a more faithful man than those whose fortunes I have made —­perhaps because he owes me nothing.”

For the last two years Maitre Cornelius had lived entirely alone with his aged sister, who was thought a witch.  A tailor in the neighborhood declared that he had often seen her at night, on the roof of the house, waiting for the hour of the witches’ sabbath.  This fact seemed the more extraordinary because it was known to be the miser’s custom to lock up his sister at night in a bedroom with iron-barred windows.

As he grew older, Cornelius, constantly robbed, and always fearful of being duped by men, came to hate mankind, with the one exception of the king, whom he greatly respected.  He fell into extreme misanthropy, but, like most misers, his passion for gold, the assimilation, as it were, of that metal with his own substance, became closer and closer, and age intensified it.  His sister herself excited his suspicions, though she was perhaps more miserly, more rapacious than her brother whom she actually surpassed in penurious inventions.  Their daily existence had something mysterious and problematical about it.  The old woman rarely took bread from the baker; she appeared so seldom in the market, that the least credulous of the townspeople ended by attributing to these strange beings the knowledge of some secret for the maintenance of life.  Those who dabbled in alchemy declared that Maitre Cornelius had the power of making gold.  Men of science averred that he had found the Universal Panacea.  According to many of the country-people to whom the townsfolk talked of him, Cornelius was a chimerical being, and many of them came into the town to look at his house out of mere curiosity.

The young seigneur whom we left in front of that house looked about him, first at the hotel de Poitiers, the home of his mistress, and then at the evil house.  The moonbeams were creeping round their angles, and tinting with a mixture of light and shade the hollows and reliefs of the carvings.  The caprices of this white light gave a sinister expression to both edifices; it seemed as if Nature herself encouraged the superstitions that hung about the miser’s dwelling.  The young man called to mind the many traditions which made Cornelius a personage both curious and formidable.  Though quite decided through the violence of his love to enter that house, and stay there long enough to accomplish his design, he hesitated to take the final step, all the while aware that he should certainly take it.  But where is the man who, in a crisis of his life, does not willingly listen to presentiments as he hangs above the precipice?  A lover worthy of being loved, the young man feared to die before he had been received for love’s sake by the countess.

This mental deliberation was so painfully interesting that he did not feel the cold wind as it whistled round the corner of the building, and chilled his legs.  On entering that house, he must lay aside his name, as already he had laid aside the handsome garments of nobility.  In case of mishap, he could not claim the privileges of his rank nor the protection of his friends without bringing hopeless ruin on the Comtesse de Saint-Vallier.  If her husband suspected the nocturnal visit of a lover, he was capable of roasting her alive in an iron cage, or of killing her by degrees in the dungeons of a fortified castle.  Looking down at the shabby clothing in which he had disguised himself, the young nobleman felt ashamed.  His black leather belt, his stout shoes, his ribbed socks, his linsey-woolsey breeches, and his gray woollen doublet made him look like the clerk of some poverty-stricken justice.  To a noble of the fifteenth century it was like death itself to play the part of a beggarly burgher, and renounce the privileges of his rank.  But—­to climb the roof of the house where his mistress wept; to descend the chimney, or creep along from gutter to gutter to the window of her room; to risk his life to kneel beside her on a silken cushion before a glowing fire, during the sleep of a dangerous husband, whose snores would double their joy; to defy both heaven and earth in snatching the boldest of all kisses; to say no word that would not lead to death or at least to sanguinary combat if overheard,—­all these voluptuous images and romantic dangers decided the young man.  However slight might be the guerdon of his enterprise, could he only kiss once more the hand of his lady, he still resolved to venture all, impelled by the chivalrous and passionate spirit of those days.  He never supposed for a moment that the countess would refuse him the soft happiness of love in the midst of such mortal danger.  The adventure was too perilous, too impossible not to be attempted and carried out.

Suddenly all the bells in the town rang out the curfew,—­a custom fallen elsewhere into desuetude, but still observed in the provinces, where venerable habits are abolished slowly.  Though the lights were not put out, the watchmen of each quarter stretched the chains across the streets.  Many doors were locked; the steps of a few belated burghers, attended by their servants, armed to the teeth and bearing lanterns, echoed in the distance.  Soon the town, garroted as it were, seemed to be asleep, and safe from robbers and evil-doers, except through the roofs.  In those days the roofs of houses were much frequented after dark.  The streets were so narrow in the provincial towns, and even in Paris, that robbers could jump from the roofs on one side to those on the other.  This perilous occupation was long the amusement of King Charles IX. in his youth, if we may believe the memoirs of his day.

Fearing to present himself too late to the old silversmith, the young nobleman now went up to the door of the Malemaison intending to knock, when, on looking at it, his attention was excited by a sort of vision, which the writers of those days would have called “cornue,”—­perhaps with reference to horns and hoofs.  He rubbed his eyes to clear his sight, and a thousand diverse sentiments passed through his mind at the spectacle before him.  On each side of the door was a face framed in a species of loophole.  At first he took these two faces for grotesque masks carved in stone, so angular, distorted, projecting, motionless, discolored were they; but the cold air and the moonlight presently enabled him to distinguish the faint white mist which living breath sent from two purplish noses; then he saw in each hollow face, beneath the shadow of the eyebrows, two eyes of porcelain blue casting clear fire, like those of a wolf crouching in the brushwood as it hears the baying of the hounds.  The uneasy gleam of those eyes was turned on him so fixedly that, after receiving it for fully a minute, during which he examined the singular sight, he felt like a bird at which a setter points; a feverish tumult rose in his soul, but he quickly repressed it.  The two faces, strained and suspicious, were doubtless those of Cornelius and his sister.

The young man feigned to be looking about him to see where he was, and whether this were the house named on a card which he drew from his pocket and pretended to read in the moonlight; then he walked straight to the door and struck three blows upon it, which echoed within the house as if it were the entrance to a cave.  A faint light crept beneath the threshold, and an eye appeared at a small and very strong iron grating.

“Who is there?”

“A friend, sent by Oosterlinck, of Brussels.”

“What do you want?”

“To enter.”

“Your name?”

“Philippe Goulenoire.”

“Have you brought credentials?”

“Here they are.”

“Pass them through the box.”

“Where is it?”

“To your left.”

Philippe Goulenoire put the letter through the slit of an iron box above which was a loophole.

“The devil!” thought he, “plainly the king comes here, as they say he does; he couldn’t take more precautions at Plessis.”

He waited for more than a quarter of an hour in the street.  After that lapse of time, he heard Cornelius saying to his sister, “Close the traps of the door.”

A clinking of chains resounded from within.  Philippe heard the bolts run, the locks creak, and presently a small low door, iron-bound, opened to the slightest distance through which a man could pass.  At the risk of tearing off his clothing, Philippe squeezed himself rather than walked into La Malemaison.  A toothless old woman with a hatchet face, the eyebrows projecting like the handles of a cauldron, the nose and chin so near together that a nut could scarcely pass between them, —­a pallid, haggard creature, her hollow temples composed apparently of only bones and nerves,—­guided the “soi-disant” foreigner silently into a lower room, while Cornelius followed prudently behind him.

“Sit there,” she said to Philippe, showing him a three-legged stool placed at the corner of a carved stone fireplace, where there was no fire.

On the other side of the chimney-piece was a walnut table with twisted legs, on which was an egg in a plate and ten or a dozen little bread-sops, hard and dry and cut with studied parsimony.  Two stools placed beside the table, on one of which the old woman sat down, showed that the miserly pair were eating their suppers.  Cornelius went to the door and pushed two iron shutters into their place, closing, no doubt, the loopholes through which they had been gazing into the street; then he returned to his seat.  Philippe Goulenoire (so called) next beheld the brother and sister dipping their sops into the egg in turn, and with the utmost gravity and the same precision with which soldiers dip their spoons in regular rotation into the mess-pot.  This performance was done in silence.  But as he ate, Cornelius examined the false apprentice with as much care and scrutiny as if he were weighing an old coin.

Philippe, feeling that an icy mantle had descended on his shoulders, was tempted to look about him; but, with the circumspection dictated by all amorous enterprises, he was careful not to glance, even furtively, at the walls; for he fully understood that if Cornelius detected him, he would not allow so inquisitive a person to remain in his house.  He contented himself, therefore, by looking first at the egg and then at the old woman, occasionally contemplating his future master.

Louis XI.’s silversmith resembled that monarch.  He had even acquired the same gestures, as often happens where persons dwell together in a sort of intimacy.  The thick eyebrows of the Fleming almost covered his eyes; but by raising them a little he could flash out a lucid, penetrating, powerful glance, the glance of men habituated to silence, and to whom the phenomenon of the concentration of inward forces has become familiar.  His thin lips, vertically wrinkled, gave him an air of indescribable craftiness.  The lower part of his face bore a vague resemblance to the muzzle of a fox, but his lofty, projecting forehead, with many lines, showed great and splendid qualities and a nobility of soul, the springs of which had been lowered by experience until the cruel teachings of life had driven it back into the farthest recesses of this most singular human being.  He was certainly not an ordinary miser; and his passion covered, no doubt, extreme enjoyments and secret conceptions.

“What is the present rate of Venetian sequins?” he said abruptly to his future apprentice.

“Three-quarters at Brussels; one in Ghent.”

“What is the freight on the Scheldt?”

“Three sous parisis.”

“Any news at Ghent?”

“The brother of Lieven d’Herde is ruined.”

“Ah!”

After giving vent to that exclamation, the old man covered his knee with the skirt of his dalmatian, a species of robe made of black velvet, open in front, with large sleeves and no collar, the sumptuous material being defaced and shiny.  These remains of a magnificent costume, formerly worn by him as president of the tribunal of the Parchons, functions which had won him the enmity of the Duke of Burgundy, was now a mere rag.

Philippe was not cold; he perspired in his harness, dreading further questions.  Until then the brief information obtained that morning from a Jew whose life he had formerly saved, had sufficed him, thanks to his good memory and the perfect knowledge the Jew possessed of the manners and habits of Maitre Cornelius.  But the young man who, in the first flush of his enterprise, had feared nothing was beginning to perceive the difficulties it presented.  The solemn gravity of the terrible Fleming reacted upon him.  He felt himself under lock and key, and remembered how the grand provost Tristan and his rope were at the orders of Maitre Cornelius.

“Have you supped?” asked the silversmith, in a tone which signified, “You are not to sup.”

The old maid trembled in spite of her brother’s tone; she looked at the new inmate as if to gauge the capacity of the stomach she might have to fill, and said with a specious smile:—­

“You have not stolen your name; your hair and moustache are as black as the devil’s tail.”

“I have supped,” he said.

“Well then,” replied the miser, “you can come back and see me to-morrow.  I have done without an apprentice for some years.  Besides, I wish to sleep upon the matter.”

“Hey! by Saint-Bavon, monsieur, I am a Fleming; I don’t know a soul in this place; the chains are up in the streets, and I shall be put in prison.  However,” he added, frightened at the eagerness he was showing in his words, “if it is your good pleasure, of course I will go.”

The oath seemed to affect the old man singularly.

“Come, come, by Saint-Bavon indeed, you shall sleep here.”

“But—­” said his sister, alarmed.

“Silence,” replied Cornelius.  “In his letter Oosterlinck tells me he will answer for this young man.  You know,” he whispered in his sister’s ear, “we have a hundred thousand francs belonging to Oosterlinck?  That’s a hostage, hey!”

“And suppose he steals those Bavarian jewels?  Tiens, he looks more like a thief than a Fleming.”

“Hush!” exclaimed the old man, listening attentively to some sound.

Both misers listened.  A moment after the “Hush!” uttered by Cornelius, a noise produced by the steps of several men echoed in the distance on the other side of the moat of the town.

“It is the Plessis guard on their rounds,” said the sister.

“Give me the key of the apprentice’s room,” said Cornelius.

The old woman made a gesture as if to take the lamp.

“Do you mean to leave us alone, without light?” cried Cornelius, in a meaning tone of voice.  “At your age can’t you see in the dark?  It isn’t difficult to find a key.”

The sister understood the meaning hidden beneath these words and left the room.  Looking at this singular creature as she walked towards the door, Philippe Goulenoire was able to hide from Cornelius the glance which he hastily cast about the room.  It was wainscoted in oak to the chair-strip, and the walls above were hung with yellow leather stamped with black arabesques; but what struck the young man most was a match-lock pistol with its formidable trigger.  This new and terrible weapon lay close to Cornelius.

“How do you expect to earn your living with me?” said the latter.

“I have but little money,” replied Philippe, “but I know good tricks in business.  If you will pay me a sou on every mark I earn for you, that will satisfy me.”

“A sou! a sou!” echoed the miser; “why, that’s a good deal!”

At this moment the old sibyl returned with the key.

“Come,” said Cornelius to Philippe.

The pair went out beneath the portico and mounted a spiral stone staircase, the round well of which rose through a high turret, beside the hall in which they had been sitting.  At the first floor up the young man paused.

“No, no,” said Cornelius.  “The devil! this nook is the place where the king takes his ease.”

The architect had constructed the room given to the apprentice under the pointed roof of the tower in which the staircase wound.  It was a little room, all of stone, cold and without ornament of any kind.  The tower stood in the middle of the facade on the courtyard, which, like the courtyards of all provincial houses, was narrow and dark.  At the farther end, through an iron railing, could be seen a wretched garden in which nothing grew but the mulberries which Cornelius had introduced.  The young nobleman took note of all this through the loopholes on the spiral staircase, the moon casting, fortunately, a brilliant light.  A cot, a stool, a mismatched pitcher and basin formed the entire furniture of the room.  The light could enter only through square openings, placed at intervals in the outside wall of the tower, according, no doubt, to the exterior ornamentation.

“Here is your lodging,” said Cornelius; “it is plain and solid and contains all that is needed for sleep.  Good night!  Do not leave this room as the others did.”

After giving his apprentice a last look full of many meanings, Cornelius double-locked the door, took away the key and descended the staircase, leaving the young nobleman as much befooled as a bell-founder when on opening his mould he finds nothing.  Alone, without light, seated on a stool, in a little garret from which so many of his predecessors had gone to the scaffold, the young fellow felt like a wild beast caught in a trap.  He jumped upon the stool and raised himself to his full height in order to reach one of the little openings through which a faint light shone.  Thence he saw the Loire, the beautiful slopes of Saint-Cyr, the gloomy marvels of Plessis, where lights were gleaming in the deep recesses of a few windows.  Far in the distance lay the beautiful meadows of Touraine and the silvery stream of her river.  Every point of this lovely nature had, at that moment, a mysterious grace; the windows, the waters, the roofs of the houses shone like diamonds in the trembling light of the moon.  The soul of the young seigneur could not repress a sad and tender emotion.

“Suppose it is my last farewell!” he said to himself.

He stood there, feeling already the terrible emotions his adventure offered him, and yielding to the fears of a prisoner who, nevertheless, retains some glimmer of hope.  His mistress illumined each difficulty.  To him she was no longer a woman, but a supernatural being seen through the incense of his desires.  A feeble cry, which he fancied came from the hotel de Poitiers, restored him to himself and to a sense of his true situation.  Throwing himself on his pallet to reflect on his course, he heard a slight movement which echoed faintly from the spiral staircase.  He listened attentively, and the whispered words, “He has gone to bed,” said by the old woman, reached his ear.  By an accident unknown probably to the architect, the slightest noise on the staircase sounded in the room of the apprentices, so that Philippe did not lose a single movement of the miser and his sister who were watching him.  He undressed, lay down, pretended to sleep, and employed the time during which the pair remained on the staircase, in seeking means to get from his prison to the hotel de Poitiers.

About ten o’clock Cornelius and his sister, convinced that their new inmate was sleeping, retired to their rooms.  The young man studied carefully the sounds they made in doing so, and thought he could recognize the position of their apartments; they must, he believed, occupy the whole second floor.  Like all the houses of that period, this floor was next below the roof, from which its windows projected, adorned with spandrel tops that were richly sculptured.  The roof itself was edged with a sort of balustrade, concealing the gutters for the rain water which gargoyles in the form of crocodile’s heads discharged into the street.  The young seigneur, after studying this topography as carefully as a cat, believed he could make his way from the tower to the roof, and thence to Madame de Vallier’s by the gutters and the help of a gargoyle.  But he did not count on the narrowness of the loopholes of the tower; it was impossible to pass through them.  He then resolved to get out upon the roof of the house through the window of the staircase on the second floor.  To accomplish this daring project he must leave his room, and Cornelius had carried off the key.

By way of precaution, the young man had brought with him, concealed under his clothes, one of those poignards formerly used to give the “coup de grace” in a duel when the vanquished adversary begged the victor to despatch him.  This horrible weapon had on one side a blade sharpened like a razor, and on the other a blade that was toothed like a saw, but toothed in the reverse direction from that by which it would enter the body.  The young man determined to use this latter blade to saw through the wood around the lock.  Happily for him the staple of the lock was put on to the outside of the door by four stout screws.  By the help of his dagger he managed, not without great difficulty, to unscrew and remove it altogether, carefully laying it aside and the four screws with it.  By midnight he was free, and he went down the stairs without his shoes to reconnoitre the localities.

He was not a little astonished to find a door wide open which led down a corridor to several chambers, at the end of which corridor was a window opening on a depression caused by the junction of the roofs of the hotel de Poitiers and that of the Malemaison which met there.  Nothing could express his joy, unless it be the vow which he instantly made to the Blessed Virgin to found a mass in her honor in the celebrated parish church of the Escrignoles at Tours.  After examining the tall broad chimneys of the hotel de Poitiers he returned upon his steps to fetch his dagger, when to his horror, he beheld a vivid light on the staircase and saw Maitre Cornelius himself in his dalmatian, carrying a lamp, his eyes open to their fullest extent and fixed upon the corridor, at the entrance of which he stood like a spectre.

“If I open the window and jump upon the roofs, he will hear me,” thought the young man.

The terrible old miser advanced, like the hour of death to a criminal.  In this extremity Philippe, instigated by love, recovered his presence of mind; he slipped into a doorway, pressing himself back into the angle of it, and awaited the old man.  When Cornelius, holding his lamp in advance of him, came into line with the current of air which the young man could send from his lungs, the lamp was blown out.  Cornelius muttered vague words and swore a Dutch oath; but he turned and retraced his steps.  The young man then rushed to his room, caught up his dagger and returned to the blessed window, opened it softly and jumped upon the roof.

Once at liberty under the open sky, he felt weak, so happy was he.  Perhaps the extreme agitation of his danger of the boldness of the enterprise caused his emotion; victory is often as perilous as battle.  He leaned against the balustrade, quivering with joy and saying to himself:—­

“By which chimney can I get to her?”

He looked at them all.  With the instinct given by love, he went to all and felt them to discover in which there had been a fire.  Having made up his mind on that point, the daring young fellow stuck his dagger securely in a joint between two stones, fastened a silken ladder to it, threw the ladder down the chimney and risked himself upon it, trusting to his good blade, and to the chance of not having mistaken his mistress’s room.  He knew not whether Saint-Vallier was asleep or awake, but one thing he was resolved upon, he would hold the countess in his arms if it cost the life of two men.

Presently his feet gently touched the warm embers; he bent more gently still and saw the countess seated in an armchair; and she saw him.  Pale with joy and palpitating, the timid creature showed him, by the light of the lamp, Saint-Vallier lying in a bed about ten feet from her.  We may well believe their burning silent kisses echoed only in their hearts.