The night before, the jailer of Sauveterre had said to his wife, at
supper,--
“I am tired of the life I am leading here. They have paid me for my
place, have not they? Well, I mean to go.”
“You are a fool!” his wife had replied. “As long as M. de Boiscoran is
a prisoner there is a chance of profit. You don’t know how rich those
Chandores are. You ought to stay.”
Like many other husbands, Blangin fancied he was master in his own
house.
He remonstrated. He swore to make the ceiling fall down upon him. He
demonstrated by the strength of his arm that he was master. But--
But, notwithstanding all this, Mrs. Blangin having decided that he
should stay, he did stay. Sitting in front of his jail, and given up to
the most dismal presentiments, he was smoking his pipe, when M. Magloire
and M. Folgat appeared at the prison, and handed him M. Galpin’s permit.
He rose as they came in. He was afraid of them, not knowing whether they
were in Miss Dionysia’s secret or not. He therefore politely doffed his
worsted cap, took his pipe from his mouth, and said,--
“Ah! You come to see M. de Boiscoran, gentlemen? I will show you in:
just give me time to go for my keys.”