“Dionysia, Dionysia, my darling, let me confess to you who this woman
is, and why I must see her.”
“No,” she interrupted him, “no! Do what your conscience bids you do. I
believe in you.”
And instead of offering to let him kiss her forehead, as usual, she
hurried off with her Aunt Elizabeth, and that so quickly, that, when he
rushed after her, he only saw, as it were, a shadow at the end of the
long passage.
Never until this moment had Jacques found it in his heart really to hate
the Countess Claudieuse with that blind and furious hatred which dreams
of nothing but vengeance. Many a time, no doubt, he had cursed her in
the solitude of his prison; but even when he was most furious against
her, a feeling of pity had risen in his heart for her whom he had once
loved so dearly; for he did not disguise it to himself, he had once
loved her to distraction. Even in his prison he trembled, as he thought
of some of his first meetings with her, as he saw before his mind’s eye
her features swimming in voluptuous languor, as he heard the silvery
ring of her voice, or inhaled the perfume she loved ever to have about
her. She had exposed him to the danger of losing his position, his
future, his honor even; and he still felt inclined to forgive her. But
now she threatened him with the loss of his betrothed, the loss of that
pure and chaste love which burnt in Dionysia’s heart, and he could not
endure that.
“I will spare her no longer,” he cried, mad with wrath. “I will hesitate
no longer. I have not the right to do so; for I am bound to defend
Dionysia!”
He was more than ever determined to risk that adventure on the next day,
feeling quite sure now that his courage would not fail him.
It was Trumence to-night--perhaps by the jailer’s skilful
management--who was ordered to take the prisoner back to his cell, and,
according to the jail-dictionary, to “curl him up” there. He called
him in, and at once plainly told him what he expected him to do. Upon
Blangin’s assurance, he expected the vagabond would jump at the mere
idea of escaping from jail. But by no means. Trumence’s smiling
features grew dark; and, scratching himself behind the ear furiously, he
replied,--
“You see--excuse me, I don’t want to run away at all.”
Jacques was amazed. If Trumence refused his cooperation he could not go
out, or, at least, he would have to wait.
“Are you in earnest, Trumence?” he asked.
“Certainly I am, my dear sir. Here, you see, I am not so badly off: I
have a good bed, I have two meals a day, I have nothing to do, and I
pick up now and then, from one man or another, a few cents to buy me a
pinch of tobacco or a glass of wine.”
“But your liberty?”
“Well, I shall get that too. I have committed no crime. I may have
gotten over a wall into an orchard; but people are not hanged for that.
I have consulted M. Magloire, and he told me precisely how I stand.
They will try me in a police-court, and they will give me three or four
months. Well, that is not so very bad. But, if I run away, they put the
gendarmes on my track; they bring me back here; and then I know how they
will treat me. Besides, to break jail is a grave offence.”
How could he overcome such wise conclusions and such excellent reasons?
Jacques was very much troubled.
“Why should the gendarmes take you again?” he asked.
“Because they are gendarmes, my dear sir. And then, that is not all.
If it were spring, I should say at once, ‘I am your man.’ But we have
autumn now; we are going to have bad weather; work will be scarce.”
Although an incurable idler, Trumence had always a good deal to say
about work.
“You won’t help them in the vintage?” asked Jacques.
The vagabond looked almost repenting.
“To be sure, the vintage must have commenced,” he said.
“Well?”
“But that only lasts a fortnight, and then comes winter. And winter is
no man’s friend: it’s my enemy. I know I have been without a place to
lie down when it has been freezing to split stones, and the snow was
a foot deep. Oh! here they have stoves, and the Board gives very warm
clothes.”
“Yes; but there are no merry evenings here, Trumence, eh? None of those
merry evenings, when the hot wine goes round, and you tell the girls all
sorts of stories, while you are shelling peas, or shucking corn?”
“Oh! I know. I do enjoy those evenings. But the cold! Where should I go
when I have not a cent?”
That was exactly where Jacques wanted to lead him.
“I have money,” he said.
“I know you have.”
“You do not think I would let you go off with empty pockets? I would
give you any thing you may ask.”
“Really?” cried the vagrant.
And looking at Jacques with a mingled expression of hope, surprise, and
delight, he added,--
“You see I should want a good deal. Winter is long. I should want--let
me see, I should want fifty Napoleons!”
“You shall have a hundred,” said Jacques.
Trumence’s eyes began to dance. He probably had a vision of those
irresistible taverns at Rochefort, where he had led such a merry life.
But he could not believe such happiness to be real.
“You are not making fun of me?” he asked timidly.
“Do you want the whole sum at once?” replied Jacques. “Wait.”
He drew from the drawer in his table a thousand-franc note. But, at the
sight of the note, the vagrant drew back the hand which he had promptly
stretched out to take the money.
“Oh! that kind? No! I know what that paper is worth: I have had some of
them myself. But what could I do with one of them now? It would not be
worth more to me than a leaf of a tree; for, at the first place I should
want it changed, they would arrest me.”
“That is easily remedied. By to-morrow I shall have gold, or small
notes, so you can have your choice.”
This time Trumence clapped his hands in great joy.
“Give me some of one kind, and some of the other,” he said, “and I
am your man! Hurrah for liberty! Where is that wall that we are to go
through?”
“I will show you to-morrow; and till then, Trumence, silence.”
It was only the next day that Blangin showed Jacques the place where the
wall had least thickness. It was in a kind of cellar, where nobody ever
came, and where cast-off tools were stored away.
“In order that you may not be interrupted,” said the jailer, “I will ask
two of my comrades to dine with me, and I shall invite the sergeant on
duty. They will enjoy themselves, and never think of the prisoners. My
wife will keep a sharp lookout; and, if any of the rounds should come
this way, she would warn you, and quick, quick, you would be back in
your room.”
All was settled; and, as soon as night came, Jacques and Trumence,
taking a candle with them, slipped down into the cellar, and went to
work. It was a hard task to get through this old wall, and Jacques would
never have been able to accomplish it alone. The thickness was even less
than what Blangin had stated it to be; but the hardness was far beyond
expectation. Our fathers built well. In course of time the cement had
become one with the stone, and acquired the same hardness. It was as if
they had attacked a block of granite. The vagrant had, fortunately, a
strong arm; and, in spite of the precautions which they had to take to
prevent being heard, he had, in less than an hour, made a hole through
which a man could pass. He put his head in; and, after a moment’s
examination, he said,--
“All right! The night is dark, and the place is deserted. Upon my word,
I will risk it!”
He went through; Jacques followed; and instinctively they hastened
towards a place where several trees made a dark shadow. Once there,
Jacques handed Trumence a package of five-franc notes, and said,--
“Add this to the hundred Napoleons I have given you before. Thank you:
you are a good fellow, and, if I get out of my trouble, I will not
forget you. And now let us part. Make haste, be careful, and good luck!”
After these words he went off rapidly. But Trumence did not march off in
the opposite direction, as had been agreed upon.
“Anyhow,” said the poor vagrant to himself, “this is a curious story
about the poor gentleman. Where on earth can he be going?”
And, curiosity getting the better of prudence, he followed him.