Day after day passed on, and the prisoner found no change in his
condition--as far, at least, as it depended on his gaolers. He was more
ill as he became enveloped in the damps of the spring; and he grew more
and more sensible of the comfort of being alone. Death by violence,
however, did not come.
He did not give over his concern for Mars Plaisir because he was glad of
his absence. He inquired occasionally for the Commandant, hoping that,
if he could see Rubaut, he might learn whether his servant was still a
prisoner, and whether his release from his cell had been for freedom, or
for a worse lot than he had left behind. There was no learning from
Bellines, however, whether the Commandant had returned to the fortress,
or who was his lieutenant, if he had not. In the middle of April, the
doubt was settled by the appearance of Rubaut himself in the cell. He
was civil--unusually so--but declared himself unable to give any
information about Mars Plaisir. He had nothing more to do with his
prisoners when they were once taken out of his charge. He had always
business enough upon his hands to prevent his occupying himself with
things and people that were gone by. He had delivered Mars Plaisir into
proper care; and that was the last he knew of him. The man was well at
that time--as well as usual, and pleased enough to be in the open air
again. Rubaut could remember no more concerning him--in fact, had not
thought of him again, from that day to the present.
"And this is the kind of answer that you would give concerning me, if my
sons should arrive hither in search of me some days after my grave had
been closed?"
"Come, come! no foreboding!" said Rubaut. "Foreboding is bad."
"If my sons should present themselves--" proceeded Toussaint--
"They will not come here--they cannot come here," interrupted Rubaut.
"No one knows that you are here, but some three or four who will never
tell."
"How," thought Toussaint, "have they secured Mars Plaisir, that he shall
never tell?" For the poor man's sake, however, he would not ask this
aloud.
Rubaut continued: "The reason why we cannot have the pleasure of giving
you the range of the fortress is, that the First Consul thinks it
necessary to keep secret the place of your abode--for the good of the
colony, as he says. With one of our own countrymen, this seclusion
might not be necessary, as the good people of the village could hardly
distinguish features from the distance at which they are; and they have
no telescopes--no idea of playing the spy upon us, as we can upon them.
They cannot distinguish features, so high up--"
"But they could complexion."
"Exactly so; and it might get abroad that some one of your colour was
here."
"And if it should get abroad, and some one of my sons, or my wife should
come, your answer would be that you remember nothing--that you cannot
charge your memory with persons and things that are gone by--that you
have had prisoners of all complexions--that some have lived and some
have died--and that you have something else to do than to remember what
became of each. I hope, however, and (as it would be for the advantage
of the First Consul) I believe, that you would have the complaisance to
show them my grave."
"Come, come! no foreboding! Foreboding is bad," repeated Rubaut.