X.
The prison of Sauveterre is in the castle at the upper end of town, in apoor and almost deserted suburb. This castle, once upon a time of greatimportance, had been dismantled at the time of the siege of Rochelle;and all that remains are a few badly-repaired ruins, ramparts withfosses that have been filled up, a gate surmounted by a small belfry, achapel converted into a magazine, and finally two huge towers connectedby an immense building, the lower rooms in which are vaulted.
Nothing can be more mournful than these ruins, enclosed within anivy-covered wall; and nothing would indicate the use that is madeof them, except the sentinel which stands day and night at the gate.Ancient elm-trees overshadow the vast courts; and on the old walls, aswell as in every crevice, there grow and bloom enough flowers to rejoicea hundred prisoners. But this romantic prison is without prisoners.
"It is a cage without birds," says the jailer often in his mostmelancholy voice.
He takes advantage of this to raise his vegetables all along theslopes; and the exposure is so excellent, that he is always the first inSauveterre who had young peas. He has also taken advantage of this--withleave granted by the authorities--to fit up very comfortable lodgingsfor himself in one of the towers. He has two rooms below, and a chamberup stairs, which you reach by a narrow staircase in the thickness of thewall. It was to this chamber that the keeper's wife took Dionysia withall the promptness of fear. The poor girl was out of breath. Her heartwas beating violently; and, as soon as she was in the room, she sankinto a chair.
"Great God!" cried the woman. "You are not sick, my dear young lady?Wait, I'll run for some vinegar."
"Never mind," replied Dionysia in a feeble voice. "Stay here, my dearColette: don't go away!"
For Colette was her name, though she was as dark as gingerbread, nearlyforty-five years old, and boasted of a decided mustache on her upperlip.
"Poor young lady!" she said. "You feel badly at being here."
"Yes," replied Dionysia. "But where is your husband?"
"Down stairs, on the lookout, madam. He will come up directly." Verysoon afterwards, a heavy step was heard on the stairs; and Blangin camein, looking pale and anxious, like a man who feels that he is running agreat risk.
"Neither seen nor known," he cried. "No one is aware of your presencehere. I was only afraid of that dog of a sentinel; and, just as you cameby, I had managed to get him round the corner, offering him a drop ofsomething to drink. I begin to hope I shall not lose my place."
Dionysia accepted these words as a summons to speak out.
"Ah!" she said, "don't mind your place: don't you know I have promisedyou a better one?"
And, with a gayety which was very far from being real, she opened herlittle bag, and put upon the table the rolls which it contained.
"Ah, that is gold!" said Blangin with eager eyes.
"Yes. Each one of these rolls contains a thousand francs; and here aresixteen."
An irresistible temptation seized the jailer.
"May I see?" he asked.
"Certainly!" replied the young girl. "Look for yourself and count."
She was mistaken. Blangin did not think of counting, not he. What hewanted was only to gratify his eye by the sight of the gold, to hear itssound, to handle it.
With feverish eagerness he tore open the wrappings, and let the piecesfall in cascades upon the table; and, as the heap increased, his lipsturned white, and perspiration broke out on his temples.
"And all that is for me?" he said with a stupid laugh.
"Yes, it is yours," replied Dionysia.
"I did not know how sixteen thousand francs would look. How beautifulgold is! Just look, wife."
But Colette turned her head away. She was quite as covetous as herhusband, and perhaps even more excited; but she was a woman, and sheknew how to dissemble.
"Ah, my dear young lady!" she said, "never would my old man and myselfhave asked you for money, if we had only ourselves to think of. But wehave children."
"Your duty is to think of your children," replied Dionysia.
"I know sixteen thousand francs is a big sum. Perhaps you will be sorryto give us so much money."
"I am not sorry at all: I would even add to it willingly." And sheshowed them one of the other four rolls in her bag.
"Then, to be sure, what do I care for my place!" cried Blangin. And,intoxicated by the sight and the touch of the gold, he added,--
"You are at home here, madam; and the jail and the jailer are at yourdisposal. What do you desire? Just speak. I have nine prisoners, notcounting M. de Boiscoran and Trumence. Do you want me to set them allfree?"
"Blangin!" said his wife reprovingly.
"What? Am I not free to let the prisoners go?"
"Before you play the master, wait, at least, till you have rendered ouryoung lady the service which she expects from you."
"Certainly."
"Then go and conceal this money," said the prudent woman; "or it mightbetray us."
And, drawing from her cupboard a woollen stocking, she handed it toher husband, who slipped the sixteen thousand francs into it, retainingabout a dozen gold-pieces, which he kept in his pocket so as always tohave in his hands some tangible evidence of his new fortune. When thiswas done, and the stocking, full to overflowing, had been put back inthe cupboard under a pile of linen, she ordered her husband,--
"Now, you go down. Somebody might be coming; and, if you were not thereto open when they knock, that might look suspicious."
Like a well-trained husband, Blangin obeyed without saying a word; andthen his wife bethought herself how to entertain Dionysia. She hoped,she said, her dear young lady would do her the honor to take something.That would strengthen her, and, besides, help her to pass the time;for it was only seven o'clock, and Blangin could not take her to M. deBoiscoran's cell before ten, without great danger.
"But I have dined," Dionysia objected. "I do not want any thing."
The woman insisted only the more. She remembered (God be thanked!) herdear young lady's taste; and she had made her an admirable broth, andsome beautiful dessert. And, while thus talking, she set the table,having made up her mind that Dionysia must eat at all hazards; at least,so says the tradition of the place.
The eager zeal of the woman had, at least, this advantage,--that itprevented Dionysia from giving way to her painful thoughts.
Night had come. It was nine o'clock; then it struck ten. At last, thewatch came round to relieve the sentinels. A quarter of an hour afterthat, Blangin reappeared, holding a lantern and an enormous bunch ofkeys in his hands.
"I have seen Trumence to bed," he said. "You can come now, madam."
Dionysia was all ready.
"Let us go," she said simply.
Then she followed the jailer along interminable passages, through avast vaulted hall, in which their steps resounded as in a church, thenthrough a long gallery. At last, pointing at a massive door, through thecracks of which the light was piercing, he said,--
"Here we are."
But Dionysia seized his arm, and said in an almost inaudible voice,--
"Wait a moment."
She was almost overcome by so many successive emotions. She felt herlegs give way under her, and her eyes become dim. In her heart shepreserved all her usual energy; but the flesh escaped from her will andfailed her at the last moment.
"Are you sick?" asked the jailer. "What is the matter?"
She prayed to God for courage and strength: when her prayer wasfinished, she said,--
"Now, let us go in."
And, making a great noise with the keys and the bolts, Blangin openedthe door to Jacques de Boiscoran's cell.
Jacques counted no longer the days, but the hours. He had beenimprisoned on Friday morning, June 23, and this was Wednesday night,June 28, He had been a hundred and thirty-two hours, according to thegraphic description of a great writer, "living, but struck from the rollof the living, and buried alive."
Each one of these hundred and thirty-tw
o hours had weighed upon himlike a month. Seeing him pale and haggard, with his hair and beardin disorder, and his eyes shining brightly with fever, likehalf-extinguished coals, one would hardly have recognized in him thehappy lord of Boiscoran, free from care and trouble, upon whom fortunehad ever smiled,--that haughty sceptical young man, who from the heightof the past defied the future.
The fact is, that society, obliged to defend itself against criminals,has invented no more fearful suffering than what is called "closeconfinement." There is nothing that will sooner demoralize a man, crushhis will, and utterly conquer the most powerful energy. There is nostruggle more distressing than the struggle between an innocent manaccused of some crime, and the magistrate,--a helpless being in thehands of a man armed with unlimited power.
If great sorrow was not sacred, to a certain degree, Dionysia might haveheard all about Jacques. Nothing would have been easier. She would havebeen told by Blangin, who was watching M. de Boiscoran like a spy, andby his wife, who prepared his meals, through what anguish he had passedsince his imprisonment.
Stunned at first, he had soon recovered; and on Friday and Saturday hehad been quiet and confident, talkative, and almost cheerful. But Sundayhad been a fatal day. Two gendarmes had carried him to Boiscoran to takeoff the seals; and on his way out he had been overwhelmed with insultsand curses by the people who had recognized him. He had come backterribly distressed.
On Tuesday, he had received Dionysia's letter, and answered it. Thishad excited him fearfully, and, during a part of the night, Trumencehad seen him walk up and down in his cell with all the gestures andincoherent imprecations of a madman.
He had hoped for a letter on Wednesday. When none came, he had sunk intoa kind of stupor, during which M. Galpin had been unable to draw a wordfrom him. He had taken nothing all day long but a little broth and a cupof coffee. When the magistrate left him, he had sat down, leaning hishead on his elbows, facing the window; and there he had remained, nevermoving, and so deeply absorbed in his reveries, that he had taken nonotice when they brought him light. He was still in this state, when, alittle after ten o'clock, he heard the grating of the bolts of his cell.He had become so well acquainted with the prison that he knew all itsregulations. He knew at what hours his meals were brought, at whattime Trumence came to clean up his room, and when he might expectthe magistrate. After night, he knew he was his own master till nextmorning. So late a visit therefore, must needs bring him some unexpectednews, his liberty, perhaps,--that visitor for whom all prisoners look soanxiously.
He started up. As soon as he distinguished in the darkness the jailer'srugged face, he asked eagerly,--
"Who wants me?"
Blangin bowed. He was a polite jailer. Then he replied,--
"Sir, I bring you a visitor."
And, moving aside, he made way for Dionysia, or, rather, he pushed herinto the room; for she seemed to have lost all power to move.
"A visitor?" repeated M. de Boiscoran.
But the jailer had raised his lantern, and the poor man could recognizehis betrothed.
"You," he cried, "you here!"
And he drew back, afraid of being deceived by a dream, or one of thosefearful hallucinations which announce the coming of insanity, and takehold of the brains of sick people in times of over-excitement.
"Dionysia!" he barely whispered, "Dionysia!"
If not her own life (for she cared nothing for that), but Jacques'slife, had at that moment depended on a single word, Dionysia could nothave uttered it. Her throat was parched, and her lips refused to move.The jailer took it upon himself to answer,--
"Yes," he said, "Miss Chandore."
"At this hour, in my prison!"
"She had something important to communicate to you. She came to me"--
"O Dionysia!" stammered Jacques, "what a precious friend"--
"And I agreed," said Blangin in a paternal tone of voice, "to bring herin secretly. It is a great sin I commit; and if it ever should becomeknown--But one may be ever so much a jailer, one has a heart, after all.I tell you so merely because the young lady might not think of it. Ifthe secret is not kept carefully, I should lose my place, and I am apoor man, with wife and children."
"You are the best of men!" exclaimed M. de Boiscoran, far fromsuspecting the price that had been paid for Blangin's sympathy, "and, onthe day on which I regain my liberty, I will prove to you that we whomyou have obliged are not ungrateful."
"Quite at your service," replied the jailer modestly.
Gradually, however, Dionysia had recovered her self-possession. She saidgently to Blangin,--
"Leave us now, my good friend."
As soon as he had disappeared, and without allowing M. de Boiscoran tosay a word, she said, speaking very low,--
"Jacques, grandpapa has told me, that by coming thus to you at night,alone, and in secret, I run the risk of losing your affection, and ofdiminishing your respect."
"Ah, you did not think so!"
"Grandpapa has more experience than I have, Jacques. Still I did nothesitate. Here I am; and I should have run much greater risks; for yourhonor is at stake, and your honor is my honor, as your life is my life.Your future is at stake, _our_ future, our happiness, all our hopes herebelow."
Inexpressible joy had illumined the prisoner's face.
"O God!" he cried, "one such moment pays for years of torture."
But Dionysia had sworn to herself, as she came, that nothing should turnher aside from her purpose. So she went on,--
"By the sacred memory of my mother, I assure you, Jacques, that I havenever for a moment doubted your innocence."
The unhappy man looked distressed.
"You," he said; "but the others? But M. de Chandore?"
"Do you think I would be here, if he thought you were guilty? My auntsand your mother are as sure of it as I am."
"And my father? You said nothing about him in your letter."
"Your father remained in Paris in case some influence in high quartersshould have to be appealed to."
Jacque shook his head, and said,--
"I am in prison at Sauveterre, accused of a fearful crime, and my fatherremains in Paris! It must be true that he never really loved me. And yetI have always been a good son to him down to this terrible catastrophe.He has never had to complain of me. No, my father does not love me."
Dionysia could not allow him to go off in this way.
"Listen to me, Jacques," she said: "let me tell you why I ran the riskof taking this serious step, that may cost me so dear. I come to youin the name of all your friends, in the name of M. Folgat, the greatadvocate whom your mother has brought down from Paris and in the name ofM. Magloire, in whom you put so much confidence. They all agree you haveadopted an abominable system. By refusing obstinately to speak, you rushvoluntarily into the gravest danger. Listen well to what I tell you.If you wait till the examination is over, you are lost. If you are oncehanded over to the court, it is too late for you to speak. You willonly, innocent as you are, make one more on the list of judicialmurders."
Jacques de Boiscoran had listened to Dionysia in silence, his head bowedto the ground, as if to conceal its pallor from her. As soon as shestopped, all out of breath, he murmured,--
"Alas! Every thing you tell me I have told myself more than once."
"And you did not speak?"
"I did not."
"Ah, Jacques, you are not aware of the danger you run! You do notknow"--
"I know," he said, interrupting her in a harsh, hoarse voice,--"I knowthat the scaffold, or the galleys, are at the end."
Dionysia was petrified with horror.
Poor girl! She had imagined that she would only have to show herselfto triumph over Jacques's obstinacy, and that, as soon as she had heardwhat he had to say, she would feel reassured. And instead of that--
"What a misfortune!" she cried. "You have taken up these fearfulnotions, and you will not abandon them!"
"I must keep silent."
"You cannot. You
have not considered!--"
"Not considered," he repeated.
And in a lower tone he added,--
"And what do you think I have been doing these hundred and thirty mortalhours since I have been alone in this prison,--alone to confront aterrible accusation, and a still more terrible emergency?"
"That is the difficulty, Jacques: you are the victim of your ownimagination. And who could help it in your place? M. Folgat said soonly yesterday. There is no man living, who, after four days' closeconfinement, can keep his mind cool. Grief and solitude are badcounsellors. Jacques, come to yourself; listen to your dearest friendswho speak to you through me. Jacques, your Dionysia beseeches you.Speak!"
"I cannot."
"Why not?"
She waited for some seconds; and, as he did not reply, she said, notwithout a slight accent of bitterness in her voice,--
"Is it not the first duty of an innocent man to establish hisinnocence?"
The prisoner, with a movement of despair, clasped his hands over hisbrow. Then bending over Dionysia, so that she felt his breath in herhair, he said,--
"And when he cannot, when he cannot, establish his innocence?"
She drew back, pale unto death, tottering so that she had to leanagainst the wall, and cast upon Jacques de Boiscoran glances in whichthe whole horror of her soul was clearly expressed.
"What do you say?" she stammered. "O God!"
He laughed, the wretched man! with that laugh which is the lastutterance of despair. And then he replied,--
"I say that there are circumstances which upset our reason; unheard-ofcircumstances, which could make one doubt of one's self. I say thatevery thing accuses me, that every thing overwhelms me, that every thingturns against me. I say, that if I were in M. Galpin's place, and if hewere in mine, I should act just as he does."
"That is insanity!" cried Dionysia.
But Jacques de Boiscoran did not hear her. All the bitterness of thelast days rose within him: he turned red, and became excited. At last,with gasping vice, he broke forth,--
"Establish my innocence! Ah! that is easily said. But how? No, I am notguilty: but a crime has been committed; and for this crime justice willhave a culprit. If it is not I who fired at Count Claudieuse, and setValpinson on fire, who is it? 'Where were you,' they ask me, 'at thetime of the murder?' Where was I? Can I tell it? To clear myself is toaccuse others. And if I should be mistaken? Or if, not being mistaken,I should be unable to prove the truthfulness of my accusation? Themurderer and the incendiary, of course, took all possible precautions toescape detection, and to let the punishment fall upon me. I was warnedbeforehand. Ah, if we could always foresee, could know beforehand! Howcan I defend myself? On the first day I said, 'Such a charge cannotreach me: it is a cloud that a breath will scatter.' Madman that I was!The cloud has become an avalanche, and I may be crushed. I am neither achild nor a coward; and I have always met phantoms face to face. I havemeasured the danger, and I know it is fearful."
Dionysia shuddered. She cried,--
"What will become of us?"
This time M. de Boiscoran heard her, and was ashamed of his weakness.But, before he could master his feelings, the young girl went on,saying,--
"But never mind. These are idle thoughts. Truth soars invincible,unchangeable, high above all the ablest calculations and the mostskilful combinations. Jacques, you must tell the truth, the whole truth,without subterfuge or concealment."
"I can do so no longer," murmured he.
"Is it such a terrible secret?"
"It is improbable."
Dionysia looked at him almost with fear. She did not recognize his oldface, nor his eye, nor the tone of his voice. She drew nearer to him,and taking his hand between her own small white hands, she said,--
"But you can tell it to me, your friend, your"--
He trembled, and, drawing back, he said,--
"To you less than anybody else."
And, feeling how mortifying such an answer must be, he added,--
"Your mind is too pure for such wretched intrigues. I do not want yourwedding-dress to be stained by a speck of that mud into which they havethrown me."
Was she deceived? No; but she had the courage to seem to be deceived.She went on quietly,--
"Very well, then. But the truth will have to be told sooner or later."
"Yes, to M. Magloire."
"Well, then, Jacques, write down at once what you mean to tell him. Hereare pen and ink: I will carry it to him faithfully."
"There are things, Dionysia, which cannot be written."
She felt she was beaten; she understood that nothing would ever bendthat iron will, and yet she said once more,--
"But if I were to beseech you, Jacques, by our past and our future, bythat great and eternal love which you have sworn?"
"Do you really wish to make my prison hours a thousand times harder thanthey are? Do you want to deprive me of my last remnant of strength andof courage? Have you really no confidence in me any longer? Could younot believe me a few days more?"
He paused. Somebody knocked at the door; and almost at the same timeBlangin the jailer called out through the wicket,--
"Time is passing. I want to be down stairs when they relieve guard. I amrunning a great risk. I am a father of a family."
"Go home now, Dionysia," said Jacques eagerly, "go home. I cannot thinkof your being seen here."
Dionysia had paid dear enough to know that she was quite safe; still shedid not object. She offered her brow to Jacques, who touched it withhis lips; and half dead, holding on to the walls, she went back to thejailer's little room. They had made up a bed for her, and she threwherself on it, dressed as she was, and remained there, immovable, as ifshe had been dead, overcome by a kind of stupor which deprived her evenof the faculty of suffering.
It was bright daylight, it was eight o'clock, when she felt somebodypulling her sleeve. The jailer's wife said to her,--
"My dear young lady, this would be a good time for you to slip away.Perhaps they will wonder to see you alone in the street; but they willthink you are coming home from seven o'clock mass."
Without saying a word, Dionysia jumped down, and in a moment she hadarranged her hair and her dress. Then Blangin came, rather troubled atnot seeing her leave the house; and she said to him, giving him one ofthe thousand-franc rolls that were still in her bag,--
"This is for you: I want you to remember me, if I should need youagain."
And, dropping her veil over her face, she went away.