XXIII.

The threatening shouts of the excited crowd had not, in fact, escaped

Canolles' attention. Through the bars at his window he was able to

feast his eyes upon the animated, changing picture which was presented

to his view, and which varied little from one end of the city to the

other.

_"Pardieu!_" said he, "this is an annoying mischance, Richon's death.

Poor Richon! he was a gallant fellow! His death will redouble the

severity of our captivity; they will not allow me to go about the city

as before; no more meetings, and no marriage, unless Claire can resign

herself to the chapel of a prison. She will be content with that, I

know. One can be married as well in one chapel as another. But it's an

evil omen, none the less. Why the deuce could they not have received

the news to-morrow instead of to-day?"

He went to the window and looked out.

"What a strict watch they are keeping!" he continued; "two sentries!

When I think that I shall be mewèd up here a week, a fortnight perhaps,

until something new occurs to make them forget this! Fortunately,

events follow rapidly on one another's heels just now, and the

Bordelais are fickle-minded; meanwhile I shall have passed some very

unpleasant hours all the same. Poor Claire! she must be in despair;

luckily she knows that I have been arrested. Yes, she knows it and so

knows that I am not at fault--Good lack! where are all those people

going? They seem to be bound for the Esplanade!--but there can be no

parade there, nor an execution, at this hour. They are all going in the

same direction. Upon my word one would say that they know I am here,

like a bear, behind my bars."

Canolles began to pace up and down with folded arms; finding himself

within the walls of a real prison, his mind turned for a moment to

philosophical ideas, with which he commonly bothered his head but

little.

"What an idiotic thing war is!" he muttered. "Here is poor Richon, with

whom I dined hardly a month ago, dead! He ought to have made sure of

death by a cannon-ball, as I would have done--as I would have done if

any other than the viscountess had besieged me. This war of women is,

in good sooth, the most to be dreaded of all wars. At least, I have had

no share in the death of a friend. Thank God, I haven't drawn my sword

against my brother! that is a consolation to me. And it is to my little

feminine good genius that I owe that, too. Take it for all in all, I

owe her many things."

At that moment an officer entered, and interrupted Canolles' soliloquy.

"Do you wish for supper, monsieur?" he asked. "If so, give your orders;

the jailer is instructed to furnish you with whatever you desire."

"Well, well," said Canolles, "it would seem that they propose at least

to treat me honorably while I remain here. I feared something different

for an instant, when I saw the stern face of the princess, and the

repellent bearing of all her judges."

"I am waiting," rejoined the officer, bowing.

"Ah! to be sure; I beg your pardon. The extreme courtesy of your

question led to certain reflections. Let us return to the matter in

hand. Yes, monsieur, I will sup, for I am very hungry; but I am of

sober habits, and a soldier's supper will content me."

"Now," said the officer, drawing nearer to him with evident interest,

"have you no commissions,--in the city? Do you expect nothing? You say

that you are a soldier; so am I; look upon me, therefore, as a comrade."

Canolles stared at him in amazement.

"No, monsieur," said he; "no, I have no commissions in the city; no, I

expect nothing, unless it be a certain person whom I may not name. As

for looking upon you as a comrade, I thank you for the suggestion. Here

is my hand, monsieur, and later, if I need anything, I will remember

what you say."

It was the officer's turn to stare at Canolles in amazement.

"Very well, monsieur," said he, "you will be served at once;" and he

withdrew.

A moment later two soldiers entered with the supper; it was more

elaborate than Canolles had asked for, and he sat down at the table and

ate heartily.

The soldiers in their turn gazed wonderingly at him. Canolles mistook

their amazement for envy, and as the wine was excellent Guyenne, he

said to them:--

"My friends, order two glasses."

One of the soldiers smiled, and procured the articles in question.

Canolles filled them; then poured a few drops of wine into his own.

"Your health, my friends!" said he.

The two soldiers took their glasses, mechanically touched them to

Canolles', and drank without reciprocating his toast.

"They are not very polite," thought Canolles, "but they drink well; one

cannot have everything."

He continued his supper, and brought it triumphantly to a close. When

he had finished he rose, and the soldiers removed the table.

The officer returned.

"_Pardieu!_ monsieur," said Canolles, "you should have supped with me;

the supper was excellent."

"I could not enjoy that honor, monsieur, for I have just left the table

myself. I return--"

"To bear me company?" said Canolles. "If so, accept my warmest thanks,

monsieur, for it is very kind of you."

"No, monsieur, my errand is less agreeable. I come to inform you

that there is no minister in the prison, and that the chaplain is a

Catholic; I know you to be a Protestant, and this fact may annoy you

somewhat--"

"Annoy me, monsieur? how so?" demanded Canolles, innocently.

"Why," said the embarrassed officer, "in the matter of your devotions."

"My devotions! Nonsense!" laughed Canolles. "I will think of that

to-morrow. I pray only in the morning."

The officer stared at Canolles in open-mouthed astonishment, which

gradually changed to profound compassion. He bowed and left the room.

"Damnation!" said Canolles, "why, every one is crazy! Since poor

Richon's death everybody I meet has the aspect of an idiot or a madman.

_Sarpejeu!_ shall I never see a sensible face again?"

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the door opened once more,

and before he had time to see who had opened it, some one threw herself

into his arms, and winding her arms around his neck deluged his face

with tears.

"God's mercy!" cried the prisoner, extricating himself from the

embrace; "another lunatic! Upon my soul, I believe I am in an asylum!"

But the gesture that he made in stepping back knocked the new-comer's

hat to the floor, and the lovely blond tresses of Madame de Cambes fell

down about her shoulders.

"You here!" he cried, rushing to her, and taking her in his arms once

more. "You! oh! forgive me for not recognizing you, or rather for not

divining your presence."

"Hush!" said she, picking up her hat and hastily replacing it on her

head; "hush! for if they knew it was I, perhaps they would turn me out.

At last I am permitted to see you once more! Oh, _mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_

how happy I am!"

Her bosom heaved, and she sobbed as if her heart would break.

_"Once more!"_ said Canolles; "you are permitted to see me _once more,_

you say? In Heaven's name, are you not to see me more than this once?"

he added, with a laugh.

"Oh! do not laugh!" said Claire; "my dear love, your gayety distresses

me. Do not laugh, I implore you! I have had such difficulty in

procuring admission,--if you knew!--and I was so near not being able

to come at all! Except, for Lenet, the best of men--But let us talk of

yourself, my poor dear. _Mon Dieu /_ it is really you, is it not? It is

really you whom I can press to my heart again?"

"Why, yes, it is I, it is really I," said Canolles, smiling.

"Oh! do not affect this cheerful demeanor,--it is useless, I know all.

They did not know that I loved you, so they hid nothing from me--"

"What is it that you know, pray?" queried Canolles.

"You expected me, didn't you?" the viscountess continued. "You were

displeased by my silence? Were you not already blaming me?"

"Unhappy and dissatisfied I was, beyond question, but I did not blame

you. I suspected that circumstances stronger than your will kept you

from my side; and the main cause of my unhappiness, through it all, has

been the necessary postponement of our marriage for a week,--perhaps

for two weeks."

Claire stared at Canolles in like amazement to that exhibited by the

officer a moment before.

"Are you speaking seriously?" said she; "are you not really any more

alarmed than you seem to be?"

"Alarmed?" said Canolles, "alarmed at what? Can it be," he added with a

laugh, "that I am exposed to some danger of which I know nothing?"

"Oh! the poor fellow!" cried Claire; "he knew nothing of it!"

Dreading, doubtless, to reveal the whole truth without warning to him

whose life was imperilled thereby, she checked, by a violent effort,

the words that had risen from her heart to her lips.

"No, I know nothing," said Canolles, gravely. "But you will tell me,

won't you? I am a man! Speak, Claire, speak."

"You know that Richon is dead?" said she.

"Yes, I know it."

"But do you know how he died?"

"No, but I suspect. He was killed at his post, was he not, in the

breach at Vayres?"

Claire was silent for a moment; then, in a tone as solemn as that of a

bell tolling for the dead, she replied:

"He was hanged in the market place at Libourne!"

Canolles started back.

"Hanged!" he cried; "Richon,--a soldier!"

Suddenly the color fled from his cheeks, and he drew his trembling hand

across his brow.

"Ah! now I understand it all," said he; "I understand my arrest, my

examination, the officer's words, and the silence of the soldiers; I

understand the step you have taken, your tears when you found me so

cheerful; I understand the crowds, the cries, and the threats. Richon

was murdered! and they will revenge Richon upon me!"

"No, no, my beloved! no, beloved of my heart!" cried Claire, beaming

with joy, seizing both Canolles' hands, and gazing with all her soul

into his eyes. "No, they will not sacrifice you, dear prisoner! You

were not mistaken,--you were marked out for the sacrifice; you were

condemned; you were doomed to die; death was very near to you, my

darling _fiancé._ But have no fear; you may speak of happiness and of

the future, for she whose whole life is consecrated to you has saved

your life! Be joyous and happy, but beneath your breath; for you may

awake your ill-fated companion, upon whose head the storm will break,

who is to die in your place!"

"Oh! hush, hush, dear love! you freeze my blood with horror," said

Canolles, hardly recovered, despite Claire's ardent caresses, from

the terrible blow he had received. "I, so calm and confident, so

idiotically happy, was in imminent danger of death! And when? at what

moment of all others? Just Heaven! at the moment when I was to become

your husband! Upon my soul, it would have been a double murder!"

"They call that 'reprisal,'" said Claire.

"Yes, yes,--it is true; they are right."

"Now you are frowning and pensive again."

"Oh!" cried Canolles, "it isn't that I fear death; but death would part

us--"

"If you had died, my love, I should have died too. But, instead of

giving way to sadness, rejoice with me. Look you, to-night--perhaps

within an hour--you will leave the prison. Either I will come here

myself for you, or I will await you at the outer door. Then, without

losing a moment, a second, we will fly--oh! instantly! I cannot wait!

this accursed city terrifies me. To-day I have succeeded in saving you;

but to-morrow some other unforeseen mischance may take you from me

again!"

"Ah! Claire, my best beloved, do you know that this is almost too great

happiness at a single stroke; yes, in very truth, too great happiness!

I shall die of it--"

"Well, then," said Claire, "be joyous and cheerful, as you naturally

are."

"Why do not you do the same?"

"See, I am laughing."

"And that sigh?"

"The sigh, my dearest, is for the poor wretch who pays for our joy with

his life."

"Yes, yes, you are right! Oh! why can you not take me away with you at

this moment? Come, my good angel, open your wings and fly away with me!"

"Patience, patience! my beloved husband! To-morrow I will carry

you--where? I neither know nor care--to the paradise of our love.

Meanwhile I am here."

Canolles took her in his arms and strained her to his breast. She

threw her arms around his neck and lay unresistingly, trembling with

agitation, against that heart, which was scarcely beating, so oppressed

was it by conflicting emotions.

Suddenly, for the second time, a heart-breaking sob shook her frame,

and happy as she was, her tears fell thick and fast upon Canolles' face.

"Well, well!" said he, "is this your cheerfulness, my poor dear angel?"

"It is the last remnant of my sorrow."

As she spoke the door opened, and the same officer announced that the

half-hour had expired.

"Adieu!" whispered Canolles; "or rather hide me in the folds of your

cloak, and take me with you!"

"Hush, dear love!" she replied, in a low tone, "for you break my heart!

Do you not see that I am dying with longing to do it? Be patient for

your own sake, and for mine. In a few hours we shall meet again never

to part."

"I am patient," said Canolles, joyfully, completely comforted by this

assurance; "but we must part now. Courage, my dear, and let us say

adieu. Adieu, Claire, adieu!"

"Adieu!" said she, trying to smile; "ad--"

But she could not complete the cruel word. For the third time her voice

was stifled with sobs.

"Adieu! adieu!" cried Canolles, seizing her in his arms anew, and

covering her brow with burning kisses, "adieu!"

"The devil!" muttered the officer, "luckily I know that the poor fellow

has no great reason to fear, or this scene would break my heart!"

He escorted Claire to the door and then returned.

"Now, monsieur," said he to Canolles, who had fallen back upon a

chair, exhausted by his emotion, "it's not enough for you to be

happy, you must be compassionate too. Your neighbor, your unfortunate

fellow-prisoner, who is to die, is entirely alone; no one is interested

in him, and he has no one to comfort him. He desires to see you. I

have taken it upon myself to allow him to do so, but your consent also

is necessary."

"My consent!" cried Canolles, "oh! I give it willingly. Poor devil!

I await him with open arms! I do not know him, but that makes no

difference."

"He seems to know you, however."

"Is he aware of the fate in store for him?"

"No, I think not. You understand that he must be left in ignorance of

it."

"Oh! never fear."

"Listen, then: eleven o'clock will soon strike, and I shall return to

the guard-house; after eleven o'clock the jailers are supreme in the

interior of the prison. Your jailer has been warned that your neighbor

will be with you, and he will come here for him when it is time for him

to return to his own cell. If he knows nothing, tell him nothing; if

he does know, tell him from us that we soldiers all pity him from the

bottom of our hearts. To die is nothing, but _sacrebleu!_ to be hanged

is to die twice over."

"Is it decided that he is to die?"

"By the same death as Richon, in order that the reprisal may be

complete. But we are chattering here, while he is awaiting your reply,

anxiously no doubt."

"Go to him, monsieur, and believe that I am deeply grateful to you,

both for him and myself."

The officer opened the door of the adjoining cell, and Cauvignac,

somewhat pale, but with a jaunty air and with head erect, entered the

cell of Canolles, who walked forward several steps to meet him.

Thereupon the officer waved his hand to Canolles, cast a pitying glance

at Cauvignac, and took his leave, taking with him his soldiers, whose

heavy footfalls could be heard for some time in the corridors.

Soon the jailer made his round; they heard the clashing of his keys in

the different doors.

Cauvignac was not depressed, because there was in the man an

unalterable confidence in himself, an inextinguishable hope in the

future. But, beneath his calm exterior and his mask of cheerfulness,

a bitter grief was biting at his heart like a serpent. That sceptical

soul, which had always doubted everything, had come at last to doubt

its very doubts.

Since Richon's death Cauvignac had not eaten or slept.

Accustomed as he was to make light of the misfortunes of others

because he took his own so gayly, our philosopher had not once thought

of laughing at an event which led to so terrible a result as that,

and, despite himself, he saw, in all the mysterious threads which

led up to his responsibility for Richon's death, the unswerving hand

of Providence, and he began to believe, if not in the reward of good

deeds, at least in the punishment of evil deeds.

He resigned himself to his fate, therefore, and gave himself over to

thought; but, as we have said, the result of his resignation was that

he no longer ate or slept.

It was a strange and mysterious fact that his own death, which he

anticipated, moved him much less than the death of the comrade in

misfortune, whom he knew to be within two yards of him, awaiting the

fatal decree, or execution without the formality of a decree. All this

turned his thoughts once more to Richon, his avenging spectre, and the

twofold catastrophe resulting from what had seemed to him a charming

piece of mischief.

His first idea had been to escape; for, although he was a prisoner

on parole, he thought that he might without scruple disregard his

engagements, as his captors had disregarded theirs by putting him

in prison. But he was shrewd enough to realize that escape was

impossible, despite his ingenuity. Thereupon he became more firmly

convinced than ever that he was fast in the clutches of inexorable

fatality; and he had but one desire,--namely, to talk for a few

moments with his companion, whose name had caused him a feeling of sad

surprise, and to effect a reconciliation in his person with the whole

human race he had outraged so shamefully.

We do not affirm that all these reflections of his were the results

of remorse,--no, Cauvignac was too much of a philosopher to suffer

from remorse,--but it was something that closely resembled it, namely

violent self-reproach for having done evil for nothing. With time, and

a combination of circumstances suited to maintain him in this frame of

mind, this sentiment might perhaps have had the same result as remorse;

but time was lacking.

Upon entering Canolles' cell, Cauvignac waited first of all, with his

ordinary prudence, until the officer who showed him in had withdrawn;

then, when he saw that the door was securely fastened, and the wicket

hermetically closed, he walked up to Canolles, who, as we have said,

had taken some steps to meet him, and warmly pressed his hand.

Notwithstanding the gravity of his situation, Cauvignac could not

forbear a smile as his eye fell upon the handsome, refined young

man, of venturesome and joyous disposition, whom he had twice before

surprised in very different situations, once when his mission was

to send him to Nantes, and again to take him to Île Saint-Georges.

Furthermore, he recalled his momentary usurpation of his name, and the

amusing mystification of the duke resulting therefrom; and gloomy and

forbidding as the prison was, the souvenir was so mirth-provoking that,

for a moment, the present was forgotten.

For his part, Canolles recognized him at the first glance as the

person with whom he had come in contact on the two occasions we have

mentioned; and as Cauvignac, on those two occasions had been, all

things considered, a messenger of good tidings, his compassion for the

poor fellow's sad fate increased tenfold, especially as he knew that it

was his own safety that made Cauvignac's death inevitable; and in so

sensitive a mind as his such a thought caused infinitely deeper remorse

than a downright crime would have caused his companion.

He welcomed him therefore with the greatest kindness of manner.

"Well, baron," Cauvignac began; "what do you say to our present

situation? It is a little too precarious to be comfortable, it seems to

me."

"Yes, here we are in prison, and God knows when we shall get away from

here," rejoined Canolles, trying to put a good face on the matter, in

order to lighten his companion's agony with a ray of hope.

"When we shall get away from here!" repeated Cauvignac. "May God,

whom you invoke, vouchsafe, in his mercy, to postpone it as long as

possible! But I do not think he is disposed to respite us for long. I

saw from my window, as you must have seen from yours, an excited crowd

rushing in a certain direction,--toward the Esplanade, unless I am much

mistaken. You know the Esplanade, my dear baron, and you know to what

uses it is put?"

"Oh, nonsense! You exaggerate the danger, I am sure. The crowd were

heading for the Esplanade, it is true, but it was to see some military

punishment, no doubt. To make us pay for Richon's death would be

frightful; for, after all, we are both entirely innocent of his death."

Cauvignac started and fastened his eyes upon Canolles' face with, a

gloomy expression which gradually softened to one of pity.

"Well, well," he said to himself, "here's a poor fellow who deceives

himself as to the situation. But I must tell him how it really stands;

for where would be the use of encouraging him in his error only to

make the blow more crushing at the last? whereas, when one has time to

prepare, the fall always seems a little easier."

After a pause of some duration, he took both Candles' hands in his, and

gazing into his face with an intentness which greatly embarrassed him,

he said:--

"Monsieur, my dear monsieur, let us send for a bottle or two of the

excellent Braune wine you know of. Alas! I might have drunk my fill of

it if I had been governor a little longer, and I will even go so far as

to admit that my predilection for that vintage led me to apply for that

position in preference to any other. God punishes me for my gluttony."

"I shall be glad to join you," said Canolles.

"Very good, and as we drink we will talk; if what I have to tell you is

not very pleasant, the wine will be good at least, and one will make up

for the other."

Canolles knocked on the door, but there was no response; he knocked

still louder, and a child, who was playing in the corridor, came to the

door.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Wine," said Canolles; "tell your papa to bring two bottles."

The child ran off, and a moment later returned to say:

"Papa is busy talking with a gentleman just now; he will come very

soon."

"Will you let me ask you a question, my dear?" said Cauvignac.

"What is it?"

"What gentleman is your papa talking with?" he asked in his most

insinuating tone.

"With a tall gentleman."

"This is a charming child," said Cauvignac; "wait a moment and we shall

learn something. How is the gentleman dressed?"

"All in black."

"The devil! Do you hear? all in black! What is the name of this tall

gentleman dressed all in black? Do you happen to know that, my dear?"

"His name is Monsieur La Vie."

"Aha!" said Cauvignac; "the king's advocate! I fancy that we have no

reason to be apprehensive of anything he is likely to do. Let us take

advantage of their conversation to converse ourselves. Here, my little

fellow" he added, slipping a piece of money under the door, "here's

something to buy marbles with. It's a good thing to make friends

everywhere," he continued, as he stood erect once more.

The child joyfully seized the coin, and thanked the donor.

"Well, monsieur," said Canolles, "you were saying--"

"Oh, yes! I was saying that you seem to me to be sadly astray as to

the fate that awaits us when we leave the prison; you speak of the

Esplanade, of military punishments; but I am inclined to think that we

are the objects of the public attention, and that there is something

more than mere flogging in the wind."

"Nonsense!" said Canolles.

"Zounds! monsieur, you look at things in rather a more cheerful light

than I am able to do; perhaps because you haven't the same reasons for

alarm that I have. But don't boast too much of your prospects, for

they 're not over-flattering. Yours are nothing, however, compared to

mine, and mine,--I must say it because I am firmly convinced that it is

so,--are most infernally dark. Do you know who I am, monsieur?"

"That's a strange question surely. You are Captain Cauvignac, Governor

of Braune, I suppose."

"Yes, for the moment; but I have not always borne that name or that

title. I have changed my name very often, and have tried many different

titles. For instance, one day I called myself Baron de Canolles, just

as you call yourself."

Canolles looked him in the eye.

"Yes, I understand," pursued Cauvignac, "you are wondering whether

I am insane, are you not? Have no fears on that score, for I am in

full possession of all my mental faculties, and have never been more

completely sane."

"Explain yourself, then," said Canolles.

"Nothing easier. Monsieur le Duc d'Épernon--You know Monsieur le Duc

d'Épernon, do you not?"

"By name only; I never saw him."

"Luckily for me. Monsieur d'Épernon, I say, surprised me one day at a

certain house where I knew that you were a favored guest, so I took the

liberty of borrowing your name."

"Monsieur, what mean you?"

"There, there, softly! Don't be selfish enough to be jealous of one

woman just as you are on the point of marrying another! And even if you

should be,--and it would be quite consistent with human nature, for man

is a vile brute,--you will forgive me in a moment. I am too closely

connected with you for you to quarrel with me."

"I do not understand a word that you are saying, monsieur."

"I say that I have a right to be treated by you as a brother, or at

least as a brother-in-law."

"You speak in enigmas, and I am still all at sea."

"Very good; I will enlighten you with a single word. My true name is

Roland de Lartigues, and Nanon is my sister."

Canolles' suspicions gave way before a sudden swelling of the heart.

"You, Nanon's brother!" he cried. "Oh, poor fellow!"

"Yes, poor fellow, indeed!" rejoined Cauvignac; "you have hit the

point exactly; for in addition to a multitude of other disagreeable

circumstances connected with my encounter with the authorities here,

is that of bearing the name of Roland de Lartigues, and of being

Nanon's brother. You are aware that my dear sister is not in the odor

of sanctity in the nostrils of Messieurs les Bordelais. Once let it be

known that I am Nanon's brother, and I am thrice lost. Now there is one

La Rochefoucauld here, and one Lenet, who know everything."

"Ah!" said Canolles, in whose mind Cauvignac's Words awoke certain

memories; "ah! I understand now why poor Nanon called me her brother in

that letter. Dear girl!"

"Yes," said Cauvignac, "she was indeed a dear girl, and I much regret

that I did not always follow her instructions to the letter; but what

would you have? if one could foretell the future there would be no need

of God."

"What has become of her?" Canolles asked.

"Who can say? Poor child! She is in despair, no doubt,--not on my

account, for she doesn't know of my arrest, but for you, whose fate it

is more than likely that she has learned."

"Have no fear," said Canolles. "Lenet will not disclose the fact that

you are Nanon's brother, and Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld has no reason

to wish you ill; so no one will know anything about it."

"If they know nothing about that, they will know enough else, believe

me; for instance, they will know that it was I who provided a certain

document signed in blank, and that that blank signature--but,

damnation! let us forget, if we can. What a pity that the wine doesn't

come!" he continued, looking toward the door. "There's nothing like

wine to make a fellow forget."

"Come, come," said Canolles, "courage!"

_"Pardieu!_ do you think that I lack it? Wait until you see me at the

critical moment when we go for a turn on the Esplanade. But there is

one thing that worries me; shall we be shot, beheaded, or hanged?"

"Hanged!" cried Canolles. "Great God! we are noblemen, and they will

not inflict such an outrage on the nobility."

"Oh! you will see that they are quite capable of picking flaws in my

genealogy; then, too--"

"What now?"

"Will you or I be the one to go first?"

"For God's sake! my dear friend," said Canolles, "don't get such

ideas in your head! Nothing is less certain than this death that

you anticipate so confidently; people are not tried, condemned, and

executed in a night."

"Hark ye," rejoined Cauvignac; "I was over yonder when they tried poor

Richon, God rest his soul! Trial, judgment, hanging, all together,

lasted hardly more than three or four hours; let us allow for somewhat

less activity in this case,--for Madame Anne d'Autriche is Queen of

France, and Madame de Condé is only a princess of the blood,--and

that gives us four or five hours. As it is three hours since we were

arrested, and two since we appeared before our judges, we can count

upon an hour or two more to live; that's but a short time."

"In any event," said Canolles, "they will wait till daybreak before

executing us."

"Ah! that is not at all certain; an execution by torch-light is a very

fine spectacle; it costs more, to be sure, but as Madame la Princesse

is much in need of the assistance of the Bordelais, it may well be that

she will decide to incur the extra expense."

"Hush!" said Canolles, "I hear footsteps."

"The devil!" exclaimed Cauvignac, turning a shade paler.

"It's the wine, no doubt," said Canolles.

"Ah, yes!" said Cauvignac, gazing more than earnestly at the door, "it

may be that. If the jailer enters with the bottles, all is well; if on

the other hand--"

The door opened, and the jailer entered without the bottles.

Canolles and Cauvignac exchanged a significant glance, but the jailer

took no note of it,--he seemed to be in such haste, the time was so

short, and it was so dark in the cell.

He entered and closed the door.

Then he walked up to the prisoners and said, drawing a paper from his

pocket:--

"Which of you is Baron de Canolles?"

"The devil!" they exclaimed with one voice, exchanging a second glance.

Canolles hesitated before replying, and Cauvignac did the same; the

former had borne the name too long to doubt that the question was meant

for him; but the other had borne it sufficiently long to fear that his

falsehood was coming home to him.