footsteps: then, in order that the dirt and the wall might leave no
marks upon his doublet, he removed that portion of his costume, pulled
the bed away from the corner, and found the opening of which his
companion had spoken.
He crawled like a snake into the narrow gallery, which was some eight
feet deep, and which, after making a dip under the partition wall,
ascended on the other side.
As soon as he plunged his dagger into the earth he knew by the sound
that he would very soon accomplish his purpose, which was to open a
passage into some place or other. What that place would be only a
sorcerer could have told.
He kept actively at work, making as little noise as possible. From time
to time he went out of the excavation as a miner does, in order to
scatter the loose earth about the floor of his cell; otherwise it would
eventually have blocked up the gallery; then he would crawl back, and
set to work once more.
While Aubrey was working, Ascanio was thinking sadly of Colombe.
He too, as we have said, had been taken to the Châtelet; he too had
been cast into a dungeon. But, it may have been by chance, it may have
been at the duchess's suggestion, his quarters were a little less bare,
consequently a little more habitable, than the student's.
But what did Ascanio care for a little more or a little less comfort.
His dungeon was a dungeon all the same; his captivity a separation. He
had not Colombe, who was more to him than light, or liberty, or life.
Were Colombe with him in his dungeon, the dungeon would become an abode
of bliss, a palace of enchantment.
The poor child had been so happy during the days immediately preceding
his arrest! Thinking of his beloved by day, and sitting by her side at
night, he had never thought that his happiness might some day come to an
end. And if, sometimes, in the midst of his felicity, the iron hand of
doubt had clutched his heart, he had, like one threatened by danger from
some unknown source, promptly put aside all uneasiness concerning the
future that he might lose none of his present bliss.
And now he was in prison, alone, far from Colombe, who was perhaps
imprisoned like himself, perhaps a prisoner in some convent, whence she
could escape in no other way than by going to the chapel, where the
husband whom they sought to force upon her awaited her.
Two redoubtable passions were standing guard at their cell doors; the
love of Madame d'Etampes at Ascanio's, the ambition of Comte d'Orbec at
Colombe's.
As soon as he was alone in his dungeon, therefore, Ascanio became very
sad and down-hearted; his was one of those clinging natures which need
the support of some robust organization; he was one of those slender,
graceful flowers, which bend before the first breath of the tempest, and
straighten up again only in the vivifying rays of the sun.
Had Benvenuto been in his place, his first thought would have been to
examine the doors, sound the walls, and stamp upon the floor, to see if
one or the other would not afford his quick and combative mind some
possible means of escape. But Ascanio sat down upon his bed, let his
head fall upon his breast, and whispered Colombe's name. It never
occurred to him that one could escape by any possible means from a
dungeon behind three iron doors and surrounded by walls six feet thick.
The dungeon was, as we have said, a little less bare and a little more
habitable than that assigned to Jacques. It contained a bed, a table,
two chairs, and an old rush mat. Furthermore, a lamp was burning upon a
stone projection, doubtless arranged for that purpose. Beyond question
it was a cell set apart for privileged prisoners.
There was also a great difference in the matter of food: instead of the
bread and water which was brought to the student once a day, Ascanio
enjoyed two daily repasts, a privilege somewhat neutralized by the
consequent necessity of seeing the jailer twice in the twenty-four
hours. These repasts, it should be said to the credit of the
philanthropic administration of the Châtelet, were not altogether
execrable.
Ascanio thought but little of such paltry details: his was one of those
delicate feminine organizations which seem to exist on perfume and dew.
Without awaking from his reverie he ate a hit of bread, drank a few
drops of wine, and continued to think of Colombe and of Benvenuto
Cellini; of Colombe as of her to whom all his love was given, of Cellini
as of him in whom lay all his hope.
Indeed, up to that moment Ascanio had never been concerned with any of
the cares or details of existence. Benvenuto lived for both, and Ascanio
was content to breathe, to dream of some lovely work of art, and to love
Colombe. He was like the fruit which grows upon a sturdy tree, and draws
all its life from the tree.
And even now, perilous as was his situation, if he could have seen
Benvenuto Cellini at the moment of his arrest, or at the moment of his
incarceration, and Benvenuto had said to him, with a warm grasp of his
hand.
"Have no fear, Ascanio, for I am watching over you and Colombe," his
confidence in the master was so great that, relying upon that promise
alone, he would have waited without anxiety for the prison doors to be
thrown open, sure that thrown open they would be, in spite of bars and
locks.
But he had not seen Benvenuto, and Benvenuto did not know that his
cherished pupil, the son of his Stefana, was a prisoner. It would have
taken a whole day to carry the intelligence to him at Fontainebleau,
assuming that it had occurred to any one to do it, another day to return
to Paris, and in two days the enemies of the lovers might gain a long
lead upon their defender.
So it was that Ascanio passed the rest of the day and the whole of the
night following his arrest without sleep, sometimes pacing back and
forth in his cell, sometimes sitting down, and occasionally throwing
himself upon the bed, which was provided with white sheets,--a special
mark of favor which proved that Ascanio had been particularly commended
to the attention of the authorities. During that day and night and the
following morning nothing worthy of note occurred, unless it was the
regular visit of the jailer to bring his food.
About two o'clock in the afternoon, as nearly as the prisoner could
judge by his reckoning of the time, he thought that he heard voices near
at hand: it was a dull, indistinct murmur, but evidently caused by the
vocal organs of human beings. Ascanio listened and walked toward the
point whence the sound seemed to come; it was at one of the corners of
his cell. He silently put his ear to the wall and to the ground, and
found that the voices apparently came from beneath the floor.
It was evident that he had neighbors who were separated from him only by
a thin partition or an equally thin floor. After some two hours the
sounds ceased, and all was still once more.
Toward night the noise began again, but this time it was of a different
nature. It was not that which would be made by two persons speaking
together, but consisted of dull, hurried blows as of some one cutting
stone. It came from the same place, did not cease for a second, and
seemed to come nearer and nearer.
Absorbed as Ascanio was in his own thoughts, this noise seemed to him
deserving of some attention none the less, so he sat with his eyes glued
to the spot whence it came. He judged that it must be near midnight, but
he did not once think of sleeping, notwithstanding that he had not slept
for so many hours.
The noise continued: as it was long past the usual hour for work, it was
evidently some prisoner seeking to escape. Ascanio smiled sadly at the
thought that the poor devil, who would think for a moment, mayhap, that
he was at liberty, would find that he had simply changed his cell.
At last the noise approached so near that Ascanio ran and seized his
lamp, and returned with it to the corner; almost at the same moment the
earth rose up in that spot, and as it fell away disclosed a human head.
Ascanio uttered an exclamation of wonder, followed by a cry of joy, to
which a no less delighted cry made answer. The head belonged to Jacques
Aubry.
In an instant, thanks to the assistance rendered by Ascanio to the
unexpected visitor who made his appearance in such extraordinary
fashion, the two friends were in one another's arms.
As will readily be conceived, the first questions and answers were
somewhat incoherent; but at last, after exchanging a few disconnected
exclamations, they succeeded in restoring some semblance of order to
their thoughts, and in casting some light upon recent events. Ascanio to
be sure had almost nothing to say, and everything to learn.
Eventually Aubry told him the whole story: how he had returned to the
Hôtel de Nesle simultaneously with Benvenuto; how they had learned
almost at the same moment of the arrest of Ascanio and the abduction of
Colombe; how Benvenuto had rushed off to his studio like a madman,
shouting, "To the casting! to the casting!" and he, Aubry, to the
Châtelet. Of what had taken place at the Hôtel de Nesle since that
time the student could tell him nothing.
But to the general narrative of the Iliad succeeded the private
adventures of Ulysses. Aubry described to Ascanio his disappointment at
his failure to get committed to prison; his visit to Gervaise, and her
denunciation of him to the lieutenant criminal; his terrible
examination, which had no other result than the paltry fine of twenty
Paris sous, a result most insulting to the honor of Gervaise; and
finally his encounter with Marmagne just as he was beginning to despair
of procuring his own incarceration. From that point he related
everything that had happened to him up to the moment when, utterly in
the dark as to what cell he was about to enter, he had thrust his head
through the last crust of earth, and discerned by the light of his lamp
his friend Ascanio.
Whereupon the friends once more embraced with great heartiness.
"Now," said Jacques Aubry, "listen to me, Ascanio, for there is no time
to lose."
"But first of all," said Ascanio, "tell me of Colombe. Where is
Colombe?"
"Colombe? I can't tell you. With Madame d'Etampes, I think."
"With Madame d'Etampes!" cried Ascanio,--"her rival!"
"So what they say of the duchess's love for you is true, is it?"
Ascanio blushed and stammered some unintelligible words.
"Oh, you needn't blush for that!" cried Aubry. "Deuce take me! a
duchess! and a duchess who's the king's mistress at that! I should never
have any such luck. But let us come back to business."
"Yes," said Ascanio, "let us come back to Colombe."
"Bah! I'm not talking about Colombe. I'm talking about a letter."
"What letter?"
"A letter the Duchesse d'Etampes wrote you."
"Who told you that I have a letter from the Duchesse d'Etampes in my
possession?"
"Benvenuto Cellini."
"Why did he tell you that?"
"Because he must have that letter, because it is absolutely essential
that he should have it, because I agreed to take it to him, because all
I have done was done to get possession of that letter."
"But for what purpose does Benvenuto want the letter?"
"Ah! faith, I've no idea, and it doesn't concern me. He said to me, 'I
must have that letter.' I said to him, 'Very good, I will get it for
you.' I have had myself put in prison in order to get it; so give it me,
and I agree to deliver it to Benvenuto. Well, what's the matter?"
This last question was induced by the cloud which spread over Ascanio's
face.
"The matter is, my poor Aubry," said he, "that your trouble is thrown
away."
"How so?" cried Aubry. "Haven't you the letter still?"
"It is here," said Ascanio, placing his hand upon the pocket of his
doublet.
"Ah! that's well. Give it to me, and I will take it to Benvenuto."
"That letter will never leave me, Jacques."
"Why so?"
"Because I don't know what use Benvenuto proposes to make of it."
"He means to use it to save you."
"And to crush the Duchesse d'Etampes, it may be. Aubry, I will not help
to ruin a woman."
"But this woman seeks to ruin you. This woman detests you: no, I am
wrong, she adores you."
"And you would have me, in return for that feeling--"
"Why, it's exactly the same as if she hated you since you don't love
her. Besides, it's she who has done all this."
"What! she who has done it?"
"Why, yes, it was she who caused your arrest, and carried off Colombe."
"Who told you that?"
"No one; but who else could it have been?"
"Why the provost, or D'Orbec, or Marmagne, to whom you admit that you
told the whole story."
"Ascanio! Ascanio!" cried Jacques in despair, "you are destroying
yourself!"
"I prefer to destroy myself, rather than do a dastardly deed, Aubry."
"But this is no dastardly deed, for Benvenuto is the one who undertakes
to do it."
"Listen to me, Aubry," said Ascanio, "and don't be angry at what I say.
If Benvenuto stood in your place, and should say to me, 'It was Madame
d'Etampes, your enemy, who caused your arrest, who carried off Colombe,
who now has her in her power and intends to force her to do what she
does not wish to do,--I cannot save Colombe unless I have that
letter,'--I would make him swear that he would not show it to the king,
and then I would give it to him. But Benvenuto is not here, and I am not
certain that it is the duchess who is persecuting me. This letter would
not be safe in your hands, Aubry: forgive me, but you yourself admit
that you are an arrant chatterbox."
"I promise you, Ascanio, that the day I have just passed has aged me ten
years."
"You may lose the letter, or, with the best intentions, I know, make an
injudicious use of it, Aubry, so the letter will remain where it is."
"But, my dear fellow," cried Jacques, "remember that Benvenuto himself
said that nothing but this letter can save you."
"Benvenuto will save me without that, Aubry; Benvenuto has the king's
word that he will grant him whatever favor he asks on the day that his
Jupiter is safely cast. When you thought that Benvenuto was going mad
because he shouted, 'To the casting!' he was beginning to rescue me."
"But suppose the casting should be unsuccessful?" said Aubry.
"There's no danger," rejoined Ascanio with a smile.
"But that sometimes happens to the most skilful founders in France, so I
am told."
"The most skilful founders in France are mere schoolboys compared to
Benvenuto."
"But how much time is required for the casting?"
"Three days."
"And how much more before the statue can be put before the king?"
"Three days more."
"Six or seven days in all. And suppose Madame d'Etampes forces Colombe
to marry D'Orbec within six days?"
"Madame d'Etampes has no power over Colombe. Colombe will resist."
"Very true, but the provost has power over Colombe as his daughter, and
King François I. has power over Colombe as his subject; suppose the
provost and the king both order her to marry him?"
Ascanio became frightfully pale.
"Suppose that when Benvenuto demands your liberty, Colombe is already
the wife of another, what will you do with your liberty then?"
Ascanio passed one hand across his brow to wipe away the cold sweat
which the student's words caused to start thereon, while with the other
hand he felt in his pocket for the precious letter; but just as Aubry
felt certain that he was on the point of yielding, he shook his head as
if to banish all irresolution.
"No!" he said, "no! No no one save Benvenuto. Let us talk of something
else."
These words he uttered in a tone which indicated that, for the moment at
least, it was useless to insist.
"In that case," said Aubry, apparently forming a momentous resolution;
"in that case, my friend, if we are to talk on other subjects we may as
well do it to-morrow morning, or later in the day, for I am afraid we
may remain here for some time. For my own part, I confess that I am worn
out by my tribulations of the day and my labor to-night, and shall not
be sorry for a little rest. Do you remain here, and I will go back to my
own cell. When you want to see me again, do you call me. Meanwhile,
spread this mat over the hole I have made, so that our communications
may not be cut off. Good night! the night brings counsel, they say, and
I hope that I shall find you more reasonable to-morrow morning."
With that, and refusing to listen to the observations of Ascanio, who
sought to detain him, Jacques Aubry plunged head first into his gallery,
and crawled back to his cell. Ascanio, meanwhile, following up the
advice his friend had given him, dragged the mat into the corner of his
cell as soon as the student's legs had disappeared. The means of
communication between the two cells thereupon disappeared altogether.
He then tossed his doublet upon one of the two chairs which, with the
table and the lamp, constituted the furnishings of his apartment,
stretched himself out upon the bed, and, overdone with fatigue as he
was, soon fell asleep, his bodily weariness carrying the day over his
mental torture.
Aubry, instead of following Ascanio's example, although he was quite as
much in need of sleep as he, sat down upon his stool, and began to
reflect deeply, which, as the reader knows, was so entirely contrary to
all his habits, that it was evident that he was meditating some grand
stroke.
The student's immobility lasted about fifteen minutes, after which he
rose slowly, and, with the step of a man whose irresolution is at an end
for good and all, walked to the hole, and crawled into it again, but
this time with so much caution and so noiselessly, that, when he reached
the other end and raised the mat, he was overjoyed to perceive that the
operation had not aroused his friend.
That was all that the student wished. With even greater caution than he
had theretofore exhibited, he crept stealthily forth from his
underground gallery, and approached with bated breath the chair on which
Ascanio's doublet lay. With one eye fixed upon the sleeping youth, and
his ears on the alert for the slightest sound, he took from the pocket
the precious letter so eagerly coveted by Cellini, and placed in the
envelope a note from Gervaise, which he folded in exactly the same shape
as the duchess's letter, sure that Ascanio would believe, so long as he
did not open it, that lovely Anne d'Heilly's missive was still in his
possession.
As silently as ever he stole back to the mat, raised it, crawled into
the hole once more, and disappeared like the phantoms who sink through
trap-doors at the opera.
It was high time, for he was no sooner back in his cell, than he heard
Ascanio's door grinding on its hinges, and his friend's voice crying, in
the tone of one suddenly aroused from sleep,--
"Who's there?"
"I," responded a soft voice, "do not be afraid, for it is a friend."
Ascanio, who was but half dressed, rose at the sound of the voice, which
he seemed to recognize, and saw by the light of his lamp a veiled woman
standing by the door. She slowly approached him and raised her veil. He
was not mistaken,--it was Madame d'Etampes.
XVI
WHEREIN IT IS PROVED THAT A GRISETTE'S LETTER,
WHEN IT IS BURNED, MAKES AS MUCH FLAME
AND ASHES AS A DUCHESS'S
There was upon Anne d'Heilly's mobile features an expression of sadness
mingled with compassion, which deceived Ascanio completely, and
confirmed him, even before she had opened her mouth, in the impression
that she was entirely innocent of any share in the catastrophe of which
he and Colombe were victims.
"You here, Ascanio!" she said in a melodious voice; "you, to whom I
would have given a palace to live in, I find in a prison!"
"Ah, madame!" cried the youth, "it is true, is it not, that you know
nothing of the persecution to which we are subjected!"
"Did you suspect me for an instant, Ascanio?" said the duchess; "in that
case you have every reason to hate me, and I can only bewail in silence
my ill fortune in being so little known to him I know so well."
"No, madame, no," said Ascanio; "I was told that you were responsible
for it all, but I refused to believe it."
"'T was well done of you! Ascanio, you do not love me, but with you
hatred at least is not synonymous with injustice. You were right,
Ascanio; not only am I not responsible for it, but I knew nothing
whatever about it. It was the provost, Messire d'Estourville: he learned
the whole story, I know not how, told it all to the king, and obtained
from him the order to arrest you and recover Colombe."
"And Colombe is with her father?" demanded Ascanio eagerly.
"No, Colombe is with me."
"With you, madame!" cried the young man. "Why with you?"
"She is very lovely, Ascanio," murmured the duchess, "and I can
understand why you prefer her to all the women in the world, even though
the most loving of them all offers you the richest of duchies."
"I love Colombe, madame," said Ascanio, "and you know that love, which
is a treasure sent from Heaven, is to be preferred to all earthly
treasures."
"Yes, Ascanio, yes, you love her above everything. For a moment I hoped
that your passion for her was only a passing fancy; I was mistaken. Yes,
I realize now," she added with a sigh, "that to keep you apart any
longer would be to run counter to God's will."
"Ah, madame!" cried Ascanio, clasping his hands, "God has placed in your
hands the power to bring us together. Be noble and generous to the end,
madame, and make two children happy who will love you and bless you all
their lives."
"Yes," said the duchess. "I am vanquished, Ascanio; yes, I am ready to
protect and defend you; but alas! it may be too late even now."
"Too late! what do you mean?" cried Ascanio.
"It may be, Ascanio, it may be that at this moment I am lost myself."
"Lost, madame! how so, in God's name?"
"For having loved you."
"For having loved me! You, lost because of me!"
"Yes, imprudent creature that I am, lost because of you; lost because I
wrote to you."
"How so? I do not understand you, madame."
"You do not understand that the provost, armed with an order from the
king, has directed a general search to be made at the Hôtel de Nesle?
You do not understand that this search, the principal purpose of which
is to find proofs of your affair with Colombe, will be most rigorously
carried out in your bedroom."
"What then?" demanded Ascanio, impatiently.
"Why," continued the duchess, "if they find that letter, which in a
moment of frenzy I wrote to you, if it is recognized as mine, if it is
laid before the king, whom I was then deceiving, and whom I was willing
to betray for you, do you not understand that my power is at an end from
that moment? Do you not understand that I can then do nothing either for
you or for Colombe? Do you not understand, in short, that I am lost?"
"Oh!" cried Ascanio, "have no fear, madame! There is no danger of that;
the letter is here; it has never left me."
The duchess breathed freely once more, and the expression of her face
changed from anxiety to joy.
"It has never left you, Ascanio!" she repeated; "it has never left you!
To what sentiment, pray tell me, do I owe the fact that fortunate
letter has never left you?"
"To prudence, madame," murmured Ascanio.
"Prudence! mon Dieu! mon Dieu! I am wrong once more! And yet I surely
should be convinced ere this. Prudence! Ah well!" she added, seeming to
make a powerful effort to restrain her feelings, "in that case, as I
have naught but your prudence to thank, Ascanio, do you think it very
prudent to keep it upon your person, when they may come to your cell at
any moment and search you by force? do you think it prudent, I say, to
keep a letter which, if it is found, will put the only person who can
save you and Colombe in a position where it will be impossible for her
to help you?"
"Madame," said Ascanio, in his melodious voice, and with that tinge of
melancholy which all pure hearts feel when they are forced to doubt, "I
know not if the purpose to save Colombe and myself exists at the bottom
of your heart as it does upon your lips; I know not whether the desire
to see that letter again, and nothing more, is the motive of your visit
to me; I know not whether, as soon as you have it in your possession,
you may not lay aside this _rôle_ of protectress which you have
assumed, and become our enemy once more; but this I do know, madame,
that the letter is yours, that it belongs to you, and that the moment
you claim it I cease to have the right to keep it from you."
Ascanio rose, went straight to the chair upon which his doublet lay, put
his hand in the pocket, and took out a letter, the envelope of which the
duchess recognized at a glance.