“I am going to put the seals on this room, and I shall leave it in the
meanwhile in your keeping. You know your duty, and the penalties to
which you would be subject, if, at the proper time, every thing is not
found in the same condition in which it is left now. Now, how shall we
get back to Sauveterre?”
After mature deliberation it was decided that M. de Boiscoran should
go in one of his own carriages, accompanied by one of the gendarmes.
M. Daubigeon, the magistrate, and the clerk would return in the
mayor’s carriage, driven by Ribot, who was furious at being kept under
surveillance.
“Let us be off,” said the magistrate, when the last formalities had been
fulfilled.
M. de Boiscoran came down slowly. He knew the court was full of furious
peasants; and he expected to be received with hootings. It was not so.
The gendarme whom the attorney had sent down had done his duty so
well, that not a cry was heard. But when he had taken his seat in the
carriage, and the horse went off at a trot, fierce curses arose, and a
shower of stones fell, one of which wounded a gendarme.
“Upon my word, you bring ill luck, prisoner,” said the man, a friend of
the other gendarme who had been so much injured at the fire.
M. de Boiscoran made no reply. He sank back into the corner, and seemed
to fall into a kind of stupor, from which he did not rouse himself till
the carriage drove into the yard of the prison at Sauveterre. On the
threshold stood Master Blangin, the jailer, smiling with delight at the
idea of receiving so distinguished a prisoner.
“I am going to give you my best room,” he said, “but first I have to
give a receipt to the gendarme, and to enter you in my book.” Thereupon
he took down his huge, greasy register, and wrote the name of Jacques
de Boiscoran beneath that of Trumence Cheminot, a vagabond who had just
been arrested for having broken into a garden.
It was all over. Jacques de Boiscoran was a prisoner, to be kept in
close confinement.