Directly the Baron d’Escorval was arrested, although he was unarmed and
although he had taken no part in the insurrection, he fully realised the
fact that he was a lost man. He knew how hateful he was to the royalist
party, and having made up his mind that he would have to die, he turned
all his attention to the danger threatening his son. The unfortunate
blunder he made in contradicting Chupin’s evidence was due to his
preoccupation, and he did not breathe freely until he saw Maurice led
from the hall by the Abbe Midon and the friendly officers; for he feared
that his son would be unable to restrain himself, that he would declare
his guilt all to no purpose since the commission in its blind state
would never forgive the father, but rather satisfy its rancour by
ordering the execution of the son as well. When Maurice was eventually
got away, the baron became more composed, and with head erect, and
steadfast eye, he listened to his sentence. In the confusion that ensued
in removing the prisoners from the hall M. d’Escorval found himself
beside Chanlouineau, who had begun his noisy lamentations. “Courage, my
boy,” he said, indignant at such apparent cowardice.
“Ah! it is easy to talk,” whined the young farmer, who seeing that he
was momentarily unobserved, leant towards the baron, and whispered; “It
is for you that I am working. Save all your strength for to-night.”
Chanlouineau’s words and his burning glance surprised M. d’Escorval, but
he attributed both to fear. When the guards took him back to his cell,
he threw himself on to his pallet, and became absorbed in that vision of
the last hour, which is at once the hope and despair of those who are
about to die. He knew the terrible laws that govern a military
commission. The next day--in a few hours--at dawn, perhaps, he would be
taken from his cell, and placed in front of a squad of soldiers, an
officer would lift his sword, and then all would be over. All over! ay,
but what would become of his wife and son? His agony on thinking of
those he loved was terrible. He was alone; he wept. But suddenly he
started up, ashamed of his weakness. He must not allow these thoughts to
unnerve him. Had he not already determined to meet death without
flinching? Resolved to shake off this fit of melancholy, he walked round
and round his cell forcing his mind to occupy itself with material
objects.
The room which had been allotted to him was very large. It had once
communicated with an adjoining apartment, but the door had long since
been walled up. The cement which held the stone together had crumbled
away, leaving crevices through which one might look from one room into
the other. M. d’Escorval mechanically applied his eye to one of these
crevices. Perhaps he had a friend for a neighbour, some wretched man who
was to share his fate. No. He could not see anyone. He called, first in
a whisper, and then louder; but no voice replied. “If I could only tear
down this thin partition,” he thought. He trembled, then shrugged his
shoulders. And if he did, what then? He would only find himself in
another apartment similar to his own, and communicating like his with a
corridor full of guards, whose monotonous tramp he could plainly hear as
they passed to and fro. What folly to think of escape! He knew that
every possible precaution must have been taken to guard against it. Yes,
he knew this, and yet he could not refrain from examining his window.
Two rows of iron bars protected it. These were placed in such a way
that it was impossible for him to protrude his head and see how far he
was above the ground. The height, however, must be considerable, judging
from the extent of the view. The sun was setting; and through the violet
haze the baron could discern an undulating line of hills, the
culminating point of which must be the waste land of La Reche. The dark
mass of foliage that he saw on the right was probably the forest of
Sairmeuse. On the left, he divined rather than saw, nestling between the
hills, the valley of the Oiselle and Escorval. Escorval, that lovely
retreat where he had known such happiness, where he had hoped to die in
peace. And remembering past times, and thinking of his vanished dreams,
his eyes once more filled with tears. But he quickly dried them as he
heard some one draw back the bolts securing the door of his room.
Two soldiers entered, one of whom carried a torch, while the other had
with him one of those long baskets divided into compartments which are
used in carrying meals to officers on guard. These men were evidently
deeply moved, and yet, obeying a sentiment of instinctive delicacy, they
affected a semblance of gaiety. “Here is your dinner, sir,” said one
soldier, “it ought to be good, since it comes from the commander’s
kitchen.”
M. d’Escorval smiled sadly. Some attentions have a sinister significance
coming from your jailer. Still, when he seated himself before the little
table prepared for him, he found that he was really hungry. He ate with
a relish, and was soon chatting quite cheerfully with the soldiers.
“Always hope for the best, sir,” said one of these worthy fellows. “Who
knows? Stranger things have happened!”
When the baron had finished his meal, he asked for pen, ink, and paper,
which were almost immediately brought to him. He found himself again
alone; but his conversation with the soldiers had been of service, for
his weakness had passed away, his self-possession had returned, and he
could not reflect. He was surprised that he had heard nothing from his
wife or son. Had they been refused admittance to the prison? No, that
could not be; he could not imagine his judges sufficiently cruel to
prevent him from pressing his wife and son to his heart, in a last
embrace. Yet, how was it that neither the baroness nor Maurice had made
an attempt to see him! Something must have prevented them from doing so.
What could it be? He imagined the worst misfortunes. He saw his wife
writhing in agony, perhaps dead. He pictured Maurice, wild with grief,
on his knees at his mother’s bedside. Still they might come yet, for on
consulting his watch, he found that it was only seven o’clock. But alas,
he waited in vain. No one came. At last, he took up his pen, and was
about to write, when he heard a bustle in the corridor outside. The
clink of spurs resounded over the flagstones, and he heard the sharp
clink of a musket as the sentinel presented arms. Trembling in spite of
himself, the baron sprang up. “They have come at last!” he exclaimed.
But he was mistaken; the footsteps died away in the distance, and he
reflected that this must have been some round of inspection. At the same
moment, however, two objects thrown through the little grated opening in
the door of his cell, fell on to the floor in the middle of the room. M.
d’Escorval caught them up. Somebody had thrown him two files. His first
feeling was one of distrust. He knew that there were jailers who left no
means untried to dishonour their prisoners before delivering them over
to the executioner. Who had sent him these instruments of deliverance, a
friend or an enemy? Chanlouineau’s last words and the look that
accompanied them recurred to his mind, perplexing him still more. He was
standing with knitted brows, turning and re-turning the files in his
hands, when he suddenly noticed on the floor a scrap of paper which at
first had escaped his attention. He picked it up, unfolded it, and read:
“Your friends are at work. Everything is prepared for your escape. Make
haste and saw the bars of your window. Maurice and his mother embrace
you. Hope, courage!” Beneath these few lines was the letter M.
But the baron did not need this initial to feel assured, for he had at
once recognized the Abbe Midon’s handwriting. “Ah! he is a true friend,”
he murmured. “And this explains why neither my wife nor son came to
visit me; and yet I doubted their energy--and was complaining of their
neglect!” Intense joy filled his heart, he raised the letter that
promised him life and liberty to his lips, and enthusiastically
exclaimed: “To work! to work!”
He had chosen the finest of the two files which were both well tempered,
and was about to attack the bars, when he fancied he heard some one open
the door of the next room. Some one had opened it, certainly, and had
closed it again, but without locking it. The baron could hear this
person moving cautiously about. What did it all mean? Were they
incarcerating some fresh prisoner, or were they stationing a spy there?
Holding his breath and listening with the greatest attention, the baron
now heard a singular sound, the cause of which it was quite impossible
to explain. He stealthily advanced to the door that had been walled up,
knelt down and peered through one of the crevices in the masonry. The
sight that met his eyes amazed him. A man was standing in a corner of
the room, and the baron could see the lower part of his body by the
light of a large lantern which he had deposited on the floor at his
feet. He was turning quickly round and round, thus unwinding a long rope
which had been twined round his body as thread is wound about a bobbin.
M. d’Escorval rubbed his eyes as if to assure himself that he was not
dreaming. Evidently this rope was intended for him. It was to be
attached to the broken bars. But how had this man succeeded in gaining
admission to this room? Who could it be that enjoyed such liberty in the
prison? He was not a soldier--or, at least, he did not wear a uniform.
Unfortunately, the highest crevice was so situated that the baron could
not see the upper part of the man’s body; and despite all his efforts,
he failed to distinguish the features of this friend--he judged him to
be such--whose boldness verged on folly. Unable to resist his intense
curiosity, M. d’Escorval was on the point of rapping against the wall to
question him, when the door of the room where this man stood was
impetuously thrown open. Another man entered, but his lineaments also
were beyond the baron’s range of vision. However, his voice could be
heard quite plainly, and M. d’Escorval was seized with despair when this
new comer ejaculated in a tone of intense astonishment: “Good heavens!
what are you about?”
“All is discovered!” thought the baron, growing sick at heart; while to
his increased surprise the man he believed to be his friend calmly
continued unwinding the rope, and quietly replied: “As you see, I am
freeing myself from this burden, which I find extremely uncomfortable.
There are at least sixty yards of it, I should think--and what a bundle
it makes! I feared they would discover it under my cloak.”
“And what are you going to do with all this rope?” inquired the
newcomer.
“I am going to hand it to the Baron d’Escorval, to whom I have already
given a file. He must make his escape to-night.”
The scene was so improbable that the baron could not believe his own
ears. “I can’t be awake; I must be dreaming,” he thought.
But the new-comer uttered a terrible oath, and, in an almost threatening
tone, exclaimed: “We will see about that! If you have gone mad, thank
God I still possess my reason! I will not permit----”
“Excuse me!” interrupted the other, coldly, “you will permit it. This is
merely the result of your own--credulity. The time to say, ‘I won’t
permit it,’ was when Chanlouineau asked you to allow him to receive a
visit from Mademoiselle Lacheneur. Do you know what that cunning fellow
wanted? Simply to give Mademoiselle Lacheneur a letter of mine, so
compromising in its nature, that if it ever reaches the hands of a
certain person of my acquaintance, my father and I will be obliged to
reside in London for the future. Then good-bye to all our projects of an
alliance between our two families!” The newcomer heaved a mighty sigh,
followed by a half angry, half sorrowful exclamation; but the man with
the rope, without giving him any opportunity to reply, resumed: “You,
yourself, marquis, would no doubt be compromised. Were you not a
chamberlain during Bonaparte’s reign? Ah, marquis! how could a man of
your experience, so subtle, penetrating, and acute, allow himself to be
duped by a low, ignorant peasant?”
Now M. d’Escorval understood everything. He was not dreaming; it was the
Marquis de Courtornieu and Martial de Sairmeuse who were talking on the
other side of the wall. The former had been so crushed by Martial’s
revelation that he made no effort to oppose him. “And this terrible
letter?” he groaned.
“Marie-Anne Lacheneur gave it to the Abbe Midon, who came to me and
said: ‘Either the baron will escape, or this letter will be taken to
the Duke de Richelieu.’ I voted for the baron’s escape, I assure you.
The abbe procured all that was necessary; he met me at a rendezvous I
appointed in a quiet place; he coiled all this rope round my body, and
here I am.”
“Then you think that if the baron escapes they will give you back your
letter?”
“Most assuredly I do.”
“You deluded man! Why, as soon as the baron is safe, they will demand
the life of another prisoner, with the same threats.”
“By no means.”
“You will see.”
“I shall see nothing of the kind, for a very simple reason. I have the
letter now in my pocket. The abbe gave it to me in exchange for my word
of honour.”
M. de Courtornieu uttered an ejaculation which showed that he considered
the abbe to be an egregious fool. “What!” he exclaimed. “You hold the
proof, and---- But this is madness! Burn this wretched letter in your
lantern, and let the baron go where his slumbers will be undisturbed.”
Martial’s silence betrayed something like stupefaction. “Ah! so that’s
what you would do?” he asked at last.
“Certainly--and without the slightest hesitation.”
“Ah well! I can’t say that I quite congratulate you.”
The sneer was so apparent that M. de Courtornieu was sorely tempted to
make an angry reply. But he was not a man to yield to his first
impulse--this ex-Imperial chamberlain now a _grand prevot_ under His
Majesty King Louis XVIII. He reflected. Should he, on account of a sharp
word, quarrel with Martial--with the only suitor who had ever pleased
his daughter? A quarrel and he would be left without any prospect of a
son-in-law! When would heaven send him such another? And how furious
Blanche would be! He concluded to swallow the bitter pill; and it was in
a tone of paternal indulgence that he remarked: “I see that you are very
young, my dear Martial.”
The baron was still kneeling beside the partition, holding his breath in
an agony of suspense, and with his right ear against one of the
crevices.
“You are only twenty, my dear Martial,” pursued the Marquis de
Courtornieu; “you are imbued with all the enthusiasm and generosity of
youth. Complete your undertaking; I shall not oppose you; but remember
that all may be discovered--and then----”
“Have no fear, sir, on that score,” interrupted the young marquis; “I
have taken every precaution. Did you see a single soldier in the
corridor, just now? No. That is because my father, at my request, has
just assembled all the officers and guards together under pretext of
ordering exceptional precautions. He is talking to them now. This gave
me an opportunity to come here unobserved. No one will see me when I go
out. Who, then, will dare suspect me of having any hand in the baron’s
escape?”
“If the baron escapes, justice will require to know who aided him.”
Martial laughed. “If justice seeks to know, she will find a culprit of
my providing. Go, now; I have told you everything. I had but one person
to fear--yourself. A trusty messenger requested you to join me here. You
came; you know all, you have agreed to remain neutral. I am at ease, and
the baron will be safe in Piedmont when the sun rises.” He picked up his
lantern, and added, gaily: “But let us go--my father can’t harangue
those soldiers forever.”
“But you have not told me----” insisted M. de Courtornieu.
“I will tell you everything, but not here. Come, come!”
They went out, locking the door behind them; and then the baron rose
from his knees. All sorts of contradictory ideas, doubts, and
conjectures filled his mind. What could this letter have contained? Why
had not Chanlouineau used it to procure his own salvation? Who would
have believed that Martial would be so faithful to a promise wrested
from him by threats? But this was a time for action, not for reflection.
The bars were heavy, and there were two rows of them. M. d’Escorval set
to work. He had supposed that the task would be difficult, but, as he
almost immediately discovered, it proved a thousand times more arduous
than he had expected. It was the first time that he had ever worked with
a file, and he did not know how to use it. His progress was despairingly
slow. Nor was that all. Though he worked as cautiously as possible,
each movement of the instrument across the iron caused a harsh, grating
sound which made him tremble. What if some one overheard this noise? And
it seemed to him impossible for it to escape notice, since he could
plainly distinguish the measured tread of the guards, who had resumed
their watch in the corridor. So slight was the result of his labours,
that at the end of twenty minutes he experienced a feeling of profound
discouragement. At this rate, it would be impossible for him to sever
the first bar before daybreak. What, then, was the use of spending his
time in fruitless labour? Why mar the dignity of death by the disgrace
of an unsuccessful effort to escape?
He was hesitating when footsteps approached his cell. At once he left
the window and seated himself at the table. Almost directly afterwards
the door opened and a soldier entered; an officer who did not cross the
threshold remarking at the same moment: “You have your instructions,
corporal, keep a close watch. If the prisoner needs anything, call.”
M. d’Escorval’s heart throbbed almost to bursting. What was coming now?
Had M. de Courtornieu’s advice carried the day, or had Martial sent some
one to assist him? But the door was scarcely closed when the corporal
whispered: “We must not be dawdling here.”
M. d’Escorval sprang from his chair. This man was a friend. Here was
help and life.
“I am Bavois,” continued the corporal. “Some one said to me just now:
‘One of the emperor’s friends is in danger; are you willing to lend him
a helping hand!’ I replied, ‘Present,’ and here I am.”
This certainly was a brave fellow. The baron held out his hand, and in a
voice trembling with emotion: “Thanks,” said he; “thanks. What, you
don’t even know me, and yet you expose yourself to the greatest danger
for my sake.”
Bavois shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “Positively my old hide is
no more precious than yours. If we don’t succeed they will chop off our
heads with the same ax. But we _shall_ succeed. Now, let’s stop talking
and proceed to business.”
As he spoke he drew from under his long overcoat a strong iron crowbar
and a small vial of brandy, both of which he laid upon the bed. He then
took the candle and passed it five or six times before the window.
“What are you doing?” inquired the baron in suspense.
“I am signalling to your friends that everything is progressing
favourably. They are down there waiting for us; and see they are now
answering.” The baron looked, and three times they both perceived a
little flash of flame, such as is produced by burning a pinch of
gunpowder.
“Now,” said the corporal, “we are all right. Let us see what progress
you have made with the bars.”
“I have scarcely begun,” murmured M. d’Escorval.
The corporal inspected the work. “You may indeed say that you have made
no progress,” said he; “but never mind, I was ‘prenticed to a locksmith
once, and I know how to handle a file.” Then drawing the cork from the
vial of brandy, he fastened it to the end of one of the files, and
swathed the handle of the tool with a piece of damp linen. “That’s what
they call putting a _stop_ on the instrument,” he remarked, by way of
explanation. Immediately afterwards he made an energetic attack on the
bars, and it was at once evident that he had by no means exaggerated
either his knowledge of the task, or the efficacy of his precautions for
deadening the sound. The harsh grating which had so alarmed the baron
was no longer heard, and Bavois, finding he had nothing more to dread
from the keenest ears, now made preparations to shelter himself from
observation. Suspicion would be at once aroused if the gratings in the
door were covered over, so the corporal hit upon another expedient.
Moving the little table to another part of the room, he stood the
candle-stick on it in such a position that the window remained entirely
in shadow. Then he ordered the baron to sit down, and handing him a
paper, said: “Now read aloud, without pausing for a minute, until you
see me stop work.”
By this method they might reasonably hope to deceive the guards outside
in the corridor; some of whom, indeed did come to the door and look in;
but after a brief glance they walked away, and remarked to their
companions: “We have just taken a look at the prisoner. He is very pale,
and his eyes are glistening feverishly. He is reading aloud to divert
his mind. Corporal Bavois is looking out of the window. It must be dull
music for him.”
They little suspected why the baron’s eyes glistened in this feverish
fashion; and had no idea that if he read aloud it was with the view of
overpowering any suspicious sound which might result from Corporal
Bavois’ labour. The time passed on, and while the latter worked, M.
d’Escorval continued reading. He had completed the perusal of the entire
paper, and was about to begin it again, when the old soldier, leaving
the window, motioned him to stop.
“Half the task is completed,” he said in a whisper. “The lower bars are
cut.”
“Ah! how can I ever repay you for your devotion!” murmured the baron.
“Hush! not a word!” interrupted Bavois. “If I escape with you, I can
never return here; and I shan’t know where to go, for the regiment, you
see, is my only family. Ah, well! if you give me a home with you I shall
be very well content.” Thereupon he swallowed some of the brandy, and
set to work again with renewed ardour.
He had cut one of the bars of the second row, when he was interrupted by
M. d’Escorval who, without pausing in his renewed perusal, was pulling
him by the coat tails to attract attention. The corporal turned round at
once. “What’s up?” said he.
“I heard a singular noise just now in the adjoining room where the ropes
are.”
Honest Bavois muttered a terrible oath. “Do they intend to betray us?”
he asked. “I risked my life, and they promised me fair play.” He placed
his ear against a crevice in the partition, and listened for a long
while. Nothing, not the slightest sound could be detected. “It must have
been some rat that you heard,” he said at last. “Go on with your
reading.” And he turned to his work again.
This was the only interruption, and a little before four o’clock
everything was ready. The bars were cut, and the ropes, which had been
drawn through an opening in the wall, were coiled under the window. The
decisive moment had come. Bavois took the counterpane from the bed,
fastened it over the opening in the door, and filled up the keyhole.
“Now,” said he, in the same measured tone he would have used in
instructing a recruit, “attention! sir, and obey the word of command.”
Then he calmly explained that the escape would consist of two distinct
operations; first, one would have to gain the narrow platform at the
base of the tower; next one must descend to the foot of the precipitous
rock. The abbe, who understood this, had brought Martial two ropes; the
one to be used in the descent of the precipice being considerably longer
than the other. “I will fasten the shortest rope under your arms,” said
Bavois to the baron, “and I will let you down to the base of the tower.
When you have reached it I will pass you the longer rope and the
crowbar. Don’t miss them. If we find ourselves without them on that
narrow ledge of rock, we shall either be compelled to deliver ourselves
up, or throw ourselves down the precipice. I shan’t be long in joining
you. Are you ready?”
In reply M. d’Escorval lifted his arms, the rope was fastened securely
about him, and he crawled through the window.
From above the height seemed immense. Below, in the barren fields
surrounding the citadel, eight persons were waiting, silent, anxious,
breathless with suspense. They were Madame d’Escorval and Maurice,
Marie-Anne, the Abbe Midon, and four retired officers. There was no
moon, but the night was very clear, and they could see the tower
plainly. Soon after four o’clock struck from the church steeples, they
perceived a dark object glide slowly down the side of the tower--this
was the baron. A short interval and then another form followed
rapidly--this was Bavois. Half of the perilous journey was accomplished.
The watchers below could see the two figures moving about on the narrow
platform. The corporal and the baron were exerting all their strength to
fix the crowbar securely in a crevice of the rock. Suddenly one of the
figures stepped forward and glided gently down the side of the
precipice. It could be none other than M. d’Escorval. Transported with
happiness, his wife sprang forward with open arms to receive him. Alas!
at that same moment a terrible cry rent the still night air.
M. d’Escorval was falling from a height of fifty feet; he was being
hurled to the foot of the precipice. The rope had parted. Had it broken
naturally? Maurice examined it; and then with a vow of vengeance
exclaimed that they had been betrayed--that their enemy had arranged to
deliver only a dead body into their hands--that the rope had been
foully tampered with, intentionally cut with a knife beforehand!