The prison of Sauveterre is in the castle at the upper end of town, in a
poor and almost deserted suburb. This castle, once upon a time of great
importance, had been dismantled at the time of the siege of Rochelle;
and all that remains are a few badly-repaired ruins, ramparts with
fosses that have been filled up, a gate surmounted by a small belfry, a
chapel converted into a magazine, and finally two huge towers connected
by an immense building, the lower rooms in which are vaulted.
Nothing can be more mournful than these ruins, enclosed within an
ivy-covered wall; and nothing would indicate the use that is made
of them, except the sentinel which stands day and night at the gate.
Ancient elm-trees overshadow the vast courts; and on the old walls, as
well as in every crevice, there grow and bloom enough flowers to rejoice
a hundred prisoners. But this romantic prison is without prisoners.
“It is a cage without birds,” says the jailer often in his most
melancholy voice.
He takes advantage of this to raise his vegetables all along the
slopes; and the exposure is so excellent, that he is always the first in
Sauveterre who had young peas. He has also taken advantage of this--with
leave granted by the authorities--to fit up very comfortable lodgings
for himself in one of the towers. He has two rooms below, and a chamber
up stairs, which you reach by a narrow staircase in the thickness of the
wall. It was to this chamber that the keeper’s wife took Dionysia with
all the promptness of fear. The poor girl was out of breath. Her heart
was beating violently; and, as soon as she was in the room, she sank
into a chair.
“Great God!” cried the woman. “You are not sick, my dear young lady?
Wait, I’ll run for some vinegar.”
“Never mind,” replied Dionysia in a feeble voice. “Stay here, my dear
Colette: don’t go away!”
For Colette was her name, though she was as dark as gingerbread, nearly
forty-five years old, and boasted of a decided mustache on her upper
lip.
“Poor young lady!” she said. “You feel badly at being here.”
“Yes,” replied Dionysia. “But where is your husband?”
“Down stairs, on the lookout, madam. He will come up directly.” Very
soon afterwards, a heavy step was heard on the stairs; and Blangin came
in, looking pale and anxious, like a man who feels that he is running a
great risk.
“Neither seen nor known,” he cried. “No one is aware of your presence
here. I was only afraid of that dog of a sentinel; and, just as you came
by, I had managed to get him round the corner, offering him a drop of
something to drink. I begin to hope I shall not lose my place.”
Dionysia accepted these words as a summons to speak out.
“Ah!” she said, “don’t mind your place: don’t you know I have promised
you a better one?”
And, with a gayety which was very far from being real, she opened her
little bag, and put upon the table the rolls which it contained.
“Ah, that is gold!” said Blangin with eager eyes.
“Yes. Each one of these rolls contains a thousand francs; and here are
sixteen.”
An irresistible temptation seized the jailer.
“May I see?” he asked.
“Certainly!” replied the young girl. “Look for yourself and count.”
She was mistaken. Blangin did not think of counting, not he. What he
wanted was only to gratify his eye by the sight of the gold, to hear its
sound, to handle it.
With feverish eagerness he tore open the wrappings, and let the pieces
fall in cascades upon the table; and, as the heap increased, his lips
turned white, and perspiration broke out on his temples.
“And all that is for me?” he said with a stupid laugh.
“Yes, it is yours,” replied Dionysia.
“I did not know how sixteen thousand francs would look. How beautiful
gold is! Just look, wife.”
But Colette turned her head away. She was quite as covetous as her
husband, and perhaps even more excited; but she was a woman, and she
knew how to dissemble.
“Ah, my dear young lady!” she said, “never would my old man and myself
have asked you for money, if we had only ourselves to think of. But we
have children.”
“Your duty is to think of your children,” replied Dionysia.
“I know sixteen thousand francs is a big sum. Perhaps you will be sorry
to give us so much money.”
“I am not sorry at all: I would even add to it willingly.” And she
showed them one of the other four rolls in her bag.
“Then, to be sure, what do I care for my place!” cried Blangin. And,
intoxicated by the sight and the touch of the gold, he added,--
“You are at home here, madam; and the jail and the jailer are at your
disposal. What do you desire? Just speak. I have nine prisoners, not
counting M. de Boiscoran and Trumence. Do you want me to set them all
free?”
“Blangin!” said his wife reprovingly.
“What? Am I not free to let the prisoners go?”
“Before you play the master, wait, at least, till you have rendered our
young lady the service which she expects from you.”
“Certainly.”
“Then go and conceal this money,” said the prudent woman; “or it might
betray us.”
And, drawing from her cupboard a woollen stocking, she handed it to
her husband, who slipped the sixteen thousand francs into it, retaining
about a dozen gold-pieces, which he kept in his pocket so as always to
have in his hands some tangible evidence of his new fortune. When this
was done, and the stocking, full to overflowing, had been put back in
the cupboard under a pile of linen, she ordered her husband,--
“Now, you go down. Somebody might be coming; and, if you were not there
to open when they knock, that might look suspicious.”
Like a well-trained husband, Blangin obeyed without saying a word; and
then his wife bethought herself how to entertain Dionysia. She hoped,
she said, her dear young lady would do her the honor to take something.
That would strengthen her, and, besides, help her to pass the time;
for it was only seven o’clock, and Blangin could not take her to M. de
Boiscoran’s cell before ten, without great danger.
“But I have dined,” Dionysia objected. “I do not want any thing.”
The woman insisted only the more. She remembered (God be thanked!) her
dear young lady’s taste; and she had made her an admirable broth, and
some beautiful dessert. And, while thus talking, she set the table,
having made up her mind that Dionysia must eat at all hazards; at least,
so says the tradition of the place.
The eager zeal of the woman had, at least, this advantage,--that it
prevented Dionysia from giving way to her painful thoughts.
Night had come. It was nine o’clock; then it struck ten. At last, the
watch came round to relieve the sentinels. A quarter of an hour after
that, Blangin reappeared, holding a lantern and an enormous bunch of
keys in his hands.
“I have seen Trumence to bed,” he said. “You can come now, madam.”
Dionysia was all ready.
“Let us go,” she said simply.
Then she followed the jailer along interminable passages, through a
vast vaulted hall, in which their steps resounded as in a church, then
through a long gallery. At last, pointing at a massive door, through the
cracks of which the light was piercing, he said,--
“Here we are.”