the patrol shouted, "Disarm the villain and take him to the Châtelet,"
he gave up his sword, and followed the guards to the prison to which he
was so anxious to gain admission, marvelling at the merciful decrees of
Providence, which accorded him at the same time the two things he most
desired,--vengeance upon Marmagne, and access to Ascanio.
This time no objection was made to his reception within the walls of the
royal fortress; but as it seemed that it was at the moment somewhat
overburdened with guests, there was a long discussion between the jailer
and the warden of the prison, as to where the new comer should be
lodged. At last the two worthies seemed to agree upon the point; the
jailer motioned to Aubry to follow him, led him down thirty-two steps,
opened a door, pushed him into a very dark dungeon, and closed the door
behind him.
XIV
OF THE DIFFICULTY WHICH AN HONEST MAN EXPERIENCES
IN SECURING HIS RELEASE FROM PRISON
The student stood for an instant blinded by the abrupt transition from
light to darkness. Where was he? He had no idea. Was he near Ascanio or
far from him? He knew not. In the corridor through which he had passed,
he had noticed but two other doors beside the one which was opened for
him. But his primary object was gained; he was under the same roof as
his friend.
Meanwhile, as he could not spend the rest of his life in that one spot,
and as he could see at the other end of the dungeon, about fifteen feet
away, a faint ray of light struggling in through an air-hole, he
cautiously put forth his leg, with the instinctive purpose of walking to
that spot; but at the second step that he took the floor seemed suddenly
to give way under his feet; he plunged down three or four stairs, and
would doubtless have gone head foremost against the wall had not his
feet come in contact with some object which tripped him up. The result
was that he escaped with nothing worse than a few bruises.
The object which had unwittingly rendered him so important a service,
uttered a hollow groan.
"I beg your pardon," said Jacques, rising and politely removing his cap.
"It seems that I stepped upon some person or some thing, a rudeness of
which I should never have been guilty, if I had been able to see
clearly."
"You stepped," said a voice, "upon what was for sixty years a man, but
is soon to become a corpse for all eternity."
"In that case," said Jacques, "my regret is all the greater for having
disturbed you at a moment when you were engaged doubtless, as every good
Christian should be at such a time, in settling your accounts with God."
"My accounts are all settled, Master Student: I have sinned like a man,
but I have suffered like a martyr; and I hope that God, when weighing my
sins and my sorrows, will find that the sum of the latter exceeds that
of the former."
"Amen!" said Aubry, "I hope so too with all my heart. But if it will not
fatigue you too much, my dear companion in adversity,--I say my dear
companion, because I presume you bear no malice on account of the little
accident which procured me the honor of your acquaintance a short time
since,--if it will not fatigue you too much, I say, pray tell me how you
succeeded in ascertaining that I am a student."
"I knew it by your costume, and by the inkhorn hanging at your belt, in
the place where a gentleman carries his dagger."
"You say you knew it by my costume,--by the inkhorn? Ah! my dear
companion, you told me, if I mistake not, that you are at the point of
death?"
"I hope that I have at last reached the end of my sufferings: yes, I
hope to fall asleep to-day on earth, to wake to-morrow in heaven."
"I in no wise dispute what you say," replied Jacques, "but I will
venture to remind you that your present situation is not one in which it
is customary to joke."
"Who says that I am joking?" murmured the dying man with a deep sigh.
"What! you say that you recognized me by my costume, by the inkhorn at
my belt, and I, look as hard as I may, cannot see my hands before my
face."
"Possibly," rejoined the prisoner, "but when you have been fifteen years
in a dungeon as I have, you will be able to see in the darkness, as well
as you could see formerly in broad daylight."
"May the devil tear my eyes out rather than make them serve such an
apprenticeship!" cried the student. "Fifteen years! you have been
fifteen years in prison?"
"Fifteen or sixteen years, perhaps more, perhaps less. I long since
ceased to count days or to measure time."
"You must have committed some abominable crime," cried the student, "to
have been punished so pitilessly."
"I am innocent," replied the prisoner.
"Innocent!" cried Jacques aghast. "Ah! my dear comrade, I have already
reminded you that this is no time for joking."
"And I replied that I was not joking."
"But still less is it a time for lying, for a joke is simply a
relaxation of the mind, which offends neither heaven nor earth, while
lying is a deadly sin, which compromises the soul's wellbeing."
"I have never lied."
"Why you say that you are innocent, and yet you have been fifteen years
in prison?"
"Fifteen years more or less, I said."
"Ah!" cried Jacques, "and I also am innocent!"
"May God protect you then!" rejoined the dying man.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because a guilty man may hope for pardon; an innocent man, never!"
"What you say is very profound, my friend; but it's not consoling at
all, do you know?"
"I tell you the truth."
"Come," said Jacques, "come, you have some little peccadillo or other to
reproach yourself with, haven't you? Between ourselves, tell me about
it."
With that Jacques, who was really beginning to distinguish objects in
the darkness, took a stool, carried it to the dying man's bedside, and,
selecting a spot where there was a recess in the wall, placed the stool
there and made himself as comfortable as possible in his improvised
arm-chair.
"Ah! you say nothing, my friend; you have no confidence in me. Oh, well!
I can understand that: fifteen years in prison may well have made you
suspicious. My name is Jacques Aubry. I am twenty-two years old, and a
student, as you have discovered,--according to what you say, at least. I
had certain reasons which concern myself alone, for getting myself
committed to the Châtelet; I have been here ten minutes; I have had the
honor of making your acquaintance. There's my whole life in a word, and
you know me now as well as I know myself. Now, my dear companion, I will
listen to you."
"I am Etienne Raymond," said the prisoner.
"Etienne Raymond," the student repeated; "I don't know that name."
"In the first place," said the prisoner, "you were a child when it
pleased God to have me disappear from the world: in the next place, I
was of little consequence in the world, so that no one noticed my
absence."
"But what did you do? Who were you?"
"I was the Connétable de Bourbon's confidential servant."
"Oho! and you had a share with him in betraying the state. In that case
I am no longer surprised."
"No; I refused to betray my master, that was all."
"Tell me about it; how did it happen?"
"I was at the constable's hôtel in Paris, while he was living at his
château of Bourbon-l'Archambault. One day the captain of his guards
arrived with a letter from monseigneur. The letter bade me instantly
hand to the messenger a small sealed package which I would find in the
duke's bedroom in a small closet near the head of his bed. I went with
the captain to the bedroom, opened the closet, found the package in the
place described, and handed it to the messenger, who immediately took
his leave. An hour later an officer with a squad of soldiers came from
the Louvre, and bade me throw open the duke's bedroom and show them a
small closet near the head of the bed. I obeyed: they opened the closet,
but failed to find what they sought, which was nothing less than the
package the duke's messenger had carried away."
"The devil! the devil!" muttered Aubry, beginning to take a deep
interest in the situation of his companion in misfortune.
"The officer made some terrible threats, to which I made no other reply
than that I knew nothing about what he asked me; for if I had said that
I had just handed the package to the duke's messenger, they could have
pursued him and taken it from him."
"Peste!" Aubry interrupted; "that was clever of you, and you acted like
a faithful and trusty retainer."
"Thereupon the officer gave me in charge to two guards, and returned to
the Louvre with the others. In half an hour he returned with orders to
take me to the château of Pierre-Encise at Lyons. They put irons on my
feet, bound my hands, and tossed me into a carriage with a soldier on
either side. Five days later I was confined in a prison, which, I ought
to say, was far from being as dark and severe as this. But what does
that matter?" muttered the dying man; "a prison 's a prison, and I have
ended by becoming accustomed to this, as to all the others."
"Hum!" said Jacques Aubry; "that proves you to be a philosopher."
"Three days and three nights passed," continued Etienne Raymond; "at
last, during the fourth night, I was awakened by a slight noise. I
opened my eyes; my door turned upon its hinges; a woman closely veiled
entered with the jailer. The jailer placed a lamp upon the table, and,
at a sign from my nocturnal visitor, left the cell; thereupon she drew
near my bed and raised her veil. I cried aloud."
"_Hein_? who was it, pray?" Aubry asked, edging closer to the narrator.
"It was Louise of Savoy herself, the Duchesse d'Angoulême in person; it
was the Regent of France, the king's mother."
"Oho!" said Aubry; "and what was she doing with a poor devil like you?"
"She was in quest of the same sealed package which I had delivered to
the duke's messenger, and which contained love letters written by the
imprudent princess to the man she was now persecuting."
"Well, upon my word!" muttered Jacques between his teeth, "here's a
story most devilishly like the story of the Duchesse d'Etampes and
Ascanio."
"Alas! the stories of all frivolous, love-sick princesses resemble one
another," replied the prisoner, whose ears seemed to be as quick as his
eyes were piercing; "but woe to the poor devils who happen to be
involved in them!"
"Stay a moment! stay a moment, prophet of evil!" cried Aubry; "what the
devil's that you're saying? I too am involved in the story of a
frivolous, love-sick princess."
"Very well; if that is so, say farewell to the light of day, say
farewell to life."
"Go to the devil with your predictions of the other world! What's all
that to me? I'm not the one she loves, but Ascanio."
"Was it I that the regent loved?" retorted the prisoner. "Was it I,
whose very existence they had never heard of? No, but I was placed
between a barren love and a fruitful vengeance, and when they came
together I was the one to be crushed."
"By Mahomet's belly! you are not very encouraging, my good man!" cried
Aubry. "But let us return to the princess, for your narrative interests
me beyond measure, just because it makes me tremble."
"The packet contained letters which she wanted, as I have told you. In
exchange for them she promised me honors, dignities, titles; to see
those letters again she would have extorted four hundred thousand crowns
anew from another Semblançay, though he should pay for his complaisance
on the scaffold.
"I replied that I hadn't the letters, that I knew nothing about them,
that I had no idea what she meant.
"Thereupon her munificent offers were succeeded by threats; but she
found it no easier to intimidate than to bribe me, for I had told the
truth. I had delivered the letters to my noble master's messenger.
"She left my cell in a furious rage, and for a year I heard nothing
more. At the end of a year she returned, and the same scene was
repeated.
"At that time I begged, I implored her to let me go free. I adjured her
in the name of my wife and children; but to no purpose. I must give up
the letters or die in prison.
"One day I found a file in my bread.
"My noble master had remembered me; absent, exiled, a fugitive as he
was, of course he could not set me free by entreaty or by force. He sent
one of his servants to France, who induced the jailer to hand me the
file, telling me whence it came.
"I filed through one of the bars at my window. I made myself a rope with
my sheets. I descended by the rope, but when I came to the end of it I
felt in vain for the ground with my feet. I dropped, with God's name
upon my lips, and broke my leg in the fall; a night patrol found me
unconscious.
"I was thereupon transferred to the château of Chalons-sur-Saône. I
remained there about two years, at the end of which time my persecutress
made her appearance again. It was still the letters that brought her
thither. This time she was accompanied by the torturer, and I was put to
the question. This was useless barbarity, as she obtained no
information,--indeed, she could obtain none. I knew nothing save that I
had delivered the letters to the duke's messenger.
"One day at the bottom of my jug of water I found a bag filled with
gold; once more my noble master bethought himself of his poor servant.
"I bribed a turnkey, or rather the miserable creature pretended to be
bribed. At midnight he opened the door of my cell, and I went out. I
followed him through several corridors; I could already feel the air
that living men breathe, and thought that I was free, when guards rushed
out upon us and bound us both. My guide had pretended to yield to my
entreaties in order to get possession of the gold he had seen in my
hands, and then betrayed me to earn the reward offered to informers.
"They brought me to the Châtelet, to this cell.
"Here, for the last time, Louise of Savoy appeared; she was accompanied
by the executioner.
"The prospect of death could have no other effect than the promises,
threats, and torture. My hands were bound; a rope was passed through a
ring and placed around my neck. I made the same reply as always to her
demands, adding that she would fulfil my dearest wish by putting me to
death, for I was driven to despair by my life of captivity.
"It was that feeling, doubtless, which made her hold her hand. She went
out and the executioner followed her.
"Since then I have never seen her. What has become of my noble master?
What has become of the cruel duchess? I have no idea, for since that
time, some fifteen years perhaps, I have not exchanged a single word
with a single living being."
"They are both dead," said Aubry.
"Both dead! the noble-hearted duke is dead! Why, he would still be a
young man, not more than fifty-two. How did he die?"
"He was killed at the siege of Rome, and probably--" Jacques was about
to add, "by one of my friends," but he refrained, thinking that
might cause a coolness between the old man and himself. Jacques, as we
know, was becoming very discreet.
"Probably?" the prisoner repeated.
"By a goldsmith named Benvenuto Cellini."
"Twenty years ago I would have cursed the murderer: to-day I say from
the bottom of my heart, 'May his murderer be blessed!' Did they give my
noble lord a burial worthy of the man?"
"I think so: they built a tomb for him in the cathedral of Gaeta, and
upon the tomb is an epitaph wherein it is said that, beside him who
sleeps there, Alexander the Great was a sorry knave, and Cæsar an idle
blackguard."
"And the other?"
"What other?"
"The woman who persecuted me?"
"Dead also: dead nine years since."
"Just so. One night, here in my cell, I saw a phantom kneeling and
praying. I cried out and it disappeared. It was she asking my
forgiveness."
"Do you think, then, that when death came upon her she relented?"
"I trust so, for her soul's sake."
"But in that case they should have set you free."
"She may have requested it, but I am of so little importance that I was
probably forgotten in the excitement of that great catastrophe."
"And so you would likewise forgive her, as you are about to die?"
"Lift me up, young man, that I may pray for both of them." And the dying
man, resting in Jacques Aubry's arms, coupled the names of his protector
and persecutress in the same prayer: the man who had remembered him in
his affection and the woman who had never forgotten him in her
hatred,--the constable and the regent.
The prisoner was right. Jacques Aubry's eyes began to become accustomed
to the darkness, and he could make out the dying man's features. He was
a handsome old man, much emaciated by suffering, with a white beard and
a bald head,--such a head as Domenichino dreamed of when painting his
Confession of Saint-Jerome.
When his prayer was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and fell back upon
the bed; he had swooned.
Jacques thought that he was dead. He ran to the water-jug, however,
poured some water in the hollow of his hand, and shook it over his face.
The dying man returned to life once more.
"You did well to revive me, young man," said he, "and here is your
reward."
"What is that?"
"A dagger."
"A dagger! how did it come into your hands?"
"Wait one moment. One day, when the turnkey brought my bread and water,
he put the lamp upon the stool which happened to be standing near the
wall. In the wall at that point was a protruding stone, and I saw some
letters cut with a knife upon it. I hadn't time to read them. But I dug
up some earth with my hands, moistened it so as to make a sort of paste,
and took an impression of the letters, which formed the word _Ultor_.
"What was the significance of that word, which means avenger? I returned
to the stone. I tried to shake it. It moved like a tooth in its socket.
By dint of patience and persistent efforts I succeeded in removing it
from the wall. I immediately plunged my hand into the hole, and found
this dagger.
"Thereupon the longing for liberty, which I had almost lost, returned to
me in full force; I resolved to dig a passage-way from this to some
dungeon near at hand with the dagger, and there concoct some plan of
escape with its occupant. Besides, even if it all ended in failure, the
digging and cutting was something to occupy my time; and when you have
spent twenty years in a dungeon as I have, young man, you will realize
what a formidable enemy time is."
Aubry shuddered from head to foot. "Did you ever put your plan in
execution?" he inquired.
"Yes, and more easily than I anticipated. After the twelve or fifteen
years that I have been here, they have doubtless ceased to think of my
escape as a possibility: indeed, it's very likely that they no longer
know who I am. They keep me, as they keep the chain hanging from yonder
ring. The constable and the regent are dead, and they alone remembered
me. Who would now recognize the name of Etienne Raymond, even in this
place, if I should pronounce it? No one."
Aubry felt the perspiration starting from every pore as he thought of
the oblivion into which this lost existence had fallen.
"Well?" he exclaimed questioningly,--"well?"
"For more than a year," said the old man, "I dug and dug, and I
succeeded in making a hole under the wall large enough for a man to pass
through."
"But what did you do with the dirt you took from the hole?"
"I strewed it over the floor of my cell, and trod it in by constantly
walking upon it."
"Where is the hole?"
"Under my bed. For fifteen years no one has ever thought of moving it.
The jailer came down into my cell only once a day. When he had gone, and
the doors were closed, and the sound of his footsteps had died away, I
would draw out my bed and set to work; when the time for his visit drew
near, I would move the bed back to its place, and lie down upon it.
"Day before yesterday I lay down upon it never to rise again. I was at
the end of my strength: to-day I am at the end of my life. You are most
welcome, young man: you shall assist me to die, and I will make you my
heir."
"Your heir!" said Aubry in amazement.
"To be sure. I will leave you this dagger. You smile. What more precious
heritage could a prisoner leave you? This dagger is freedom, perhaps."
"You are right," said Aubry, "and I thank you. Whither does this hole
that you have dug lead?"
"I had not reached the other end, but I was very near it. Day before
yesterday I heard voices in the cell beside this."
"The devil!" said Aubry, "and you think--"
"I think that you will have finished my work in a very few hours."
"Thanks," said Aubry, "thanks."
"And now, a priest. I would much like to see a priest," said the
moribund.
"Wait, father, wait," said Aubry; "it is impossible that they would
refuse such a request from a dying man."
He ran to the door, this time without stumbling, his eyes being somewhat
accustomed to the darkness, and knocked with feet and hands both.
A turnkey came down.
"What's the matter, that you make such an uproar?" he demanded, "what do
you want?"
"The old man here with me is dying," said Aubry, "and asks for a priest:
can you refuse?"
"Hum!" grumbled the jailer, "I don't know why these fellows must all
want priests. It's all right: we'll send him one."
Ten minutes later the priest appeared, carrying the viaticum and
preceded by two sacristans, one with the crucifix, the other with the
bell.
A solemn and impressive spectacle was the confession of this martyr, who
had naught to disclose but the crimes of others, and who prayed for his
enemies instead of asking pardon for himself.
Unimaginative as was Jacques Aubry, he fell upon his knees, and
remembered the prayers of his childhood, which he thought he had
forgotten.
When the prisoner had finished his confession, the priest bowed before
him and asked his blessing.
The old man's face lighted up with a smile as radiant as the smile of
God's elect; he extended one hand over the priest's head and the other
toward Aubry, drew a deep breath, and fell back upon his pillow. That
breath was his last.
The priest went out as he had come, attended by his subordinates, and
the dungeon, lighted for a moment by the flickering flame of the
candles, became dark once more.
Jacques Aubry was alone with the dead. It was a very depressing
situation, especially in the light of the reflections to which it gave
rise. The man who lay lifeless before him had been consigned to prison
an innocent man, had remained there twenty years, and went out at last
only because Death, the great liberator, came in search of him.
The light-hearted student could not recognize himself: for the first
time he found himself confronted by stern reality; for the first time he
looked in the face the bewildering vicissitudes of life, and the calm
profundity of death.
Then a selfish thought began to take shape in his heart. He thought of
himself, innocent like the dead man, and like him involved in the
complications of one of those royal passions which crush and consume and
destroy a life. Ascanio and he might disappear, as Etienne Raymond had
disappeared, who would think of them?
Gervaise perhaps, Benvenuto Cellini certainly.
But the former could do nothing but weep; and the other confessed his
own powerlessness when he cried so loudly for the letter in Ascanio's
possession.
His only chance of safety, his only hope, lay in the heritage of the
dead man, an old dagger, which had already disappointed the expectations
of its two former owners.
Jacques Aubry had hidden the dagger in his breast, and he nervously put
his hand upon the hilt to make sure that it was still there.
At that moment the door opened, and men came in to remove the body.
"When shall you bring me my dinner?" Jacques asked. "I am hungry."
"In two hours," the jailer replied.
With that the student was left alone in the cell.
XV
AN HONEST THEFT
Aubrey passed the two hours sitting upon his stool, without once moving:
his mind was so active that it kept his body at rest.
At the appointed hour the turnkey came down, renewed the water, and
changed the bread; this was what, in Châtelet parlance, was called a
dinner.
The student remembered what the dying man told him, that the door of his
cell would be opened but once in the twenty-four hours; however he still
remained for a long while in the same place, absolutely motionless,
fearing lest the event that had just occurred should cause some change
in the routine of the prison.
He soon observed, through his air-hole, that it was beginning to grow
dark. The day just passed had been a well filled day for him. In the
morning, the examination by the magistrate; at noon, the duel with
Marmagne; at one o'clock, lodged in prison; at three, the prisoner's
death; and now his first attempts at securing his freedom.
A man does not pass many such days in his life.