LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS.
The disappointment which fell upon Monsieur Jacques was terrible. Still,
actuated by a despairing thought that God, in his mercy, would open some
way to the truth, he went vigorously to work with a heavy sledge, and
drove the staples back into the granite wall with a force that echoed
through those vaulted passages like the roar of a wild beast. When this
ponderous work was done, he turned upon his companion, and, with a
faltering voice, asked if that was enough.
Christopher hesitated, and answered,
“Follow me, and remember, not a word must be spoken to any prisoner. The
man who breaks this rule will stand a fair chance of occupying a cell
himself. Am I understood?”
Monsieur Jacques took up his tools, muttering that he had nothing to
say, and had no wish to talk with any prisoner, but to get out of that
unwholesome place as soon as possible.
While he was speaking, Christopher turned into a passage he recognized,
and Jacques scarcely drew his breath till they came opposite the very
door which had so painfully fastened itself on his memory. There the
keeper paused, and set down his lantern.
“It is seldom we permit any workman to enter a cell in which prisoners
are—but this door cannot be opened. It is some days since we have been
able to get food or water through, and we must reach him now, or he will
starve to death.”
Jacques sat down his tools and tried the lock with his hands, but they
shook violently, and fell away red with wet rust.
“The bolt has got twisted, no doubt,” said Christopher. “The whole lock
must be taken apart, and the hinges fastened. Pah! that was a lizard
creeping across my ankle, and here drops a spider into my very hair. It
makes the flesh creep on my bones. Come, come, my friend, have done
sorting your tools, this is not a pleasant place to linger in. The light
is burning blue already. Oh! there it goes! that was a powerful wrench!
Pry away! pry away! force the staple! Hercules! what powerful arms! How
the door trembles—open at last. Ah! our friend has fainted, so much the
better.”
Christopher entered the cell first, and stooping lifted a truss of
straw, which he flung over the deathly face of a man who lay in the
furthest corner. Then he placed himself directly between the prostrate
form and Jacques, who was examining the door. Without appearing to
observe these movements, he went on with his work, and seemed to be
laboring with great zeal, but made so little progress that Christopher
became impatient.
“Why, man, at this rate we shall not get away from here in an hour,” he
said, casting impatient glances around the dungeon.
“An hour! Why if I get through all that is to be done here in three
hours, it will be better than I expect.”
“Then, by our Lady! you will not spend them here! Come out into the
passage, and mend the lock there. I see little chance that this poor
fellow will be disturbed by the noise; but, in common charity, be quick,
or he may die on our hands.”
Monsieur Jacques had hoped to weary the man out by naming so many hours;
but failing in this, he answered that it was impossible to remain all
the time outside the door, he must go in and out while repairing it;
but, for the prisoner’s sake, he would lose no time.
“Well, see that you don’t,” answered Christopher, setting his lantern on
the floor. “I wouldn’t spend three hours in this place to save the
Bastille from destruction.”
The seeming locksmith muttered that it was equally disagreeable to him,
and went on with his work; but his eyes were now and then turned upon
the lantern, and Christopher might have seen that the hand which was
turning a screw in one of the hinges worked unsteadily. After an
interval of some ten minutes, he swung the door back, as if to try the
hinge; it struck the lantern, overturned it, and the next instant they
were in profound darkness.
An oath broke from the keeper, and he began to grope for the lantern;
but Jacques had been before him, the lantern was in his hand, the door
open, and he was about to grasp the candle, when a sudden jerk sent it
flying into the darkness.
“What is to be done?” questioned Jacques, rising from his knees. “How
are we to get a light?”
“Confound your awkwardness!” answered the keeper, fumbling about for the
lantern. “The door is broken open and the candle gone. This is an awful
fix. You may thank your stars that the only man in the Bastille who can
thread its passages by night, is in this infernal place with you.”
“Thank heaven it is only an inconvenience!” said the locksmith.
“If to sit here from fifteen minutes to half an hour in the dark,
breathing this pestilential air is only an inconvenience, you may,
perhaps, be grateful. For my part, I have no fancy for groping my way
through the black labyrinth of passages that lie between us and the
guardrooms; and you can tell your master, from me, that when we want
work done again in the Bastille, he must come himself. We want no more
bunglers.”
“I beg ten thousand pardons—it was an accident!”
“We do not permit of accidents here!” answered the man, by no means
appeased by the humility with which the workman strove to atone for his
fault. “For ten thousand francs I would not grope my way through the
places that lead to this, with those slimy things creeping around one.
Pah! It is bad enough when a light is there to frighten them away; but
now, curses on your blundering! if I come back without a battle with the
rats, it is more than I expect.”
Monsieur Jacques knew by the keeper’s voice that he was outside of the
cell. He could hear the lantern rattling against the stones of the wall
as he staggered forward in the darkness; but he did not hear the
muttered words which followed.
“Confound the fool! he is safe enough from any chance of mischief. The
prisoner hasn’t got the strength to speak; and as for seeing his face,
let him try. One might as well look through sheet-lead as that darkness.
Steady! Steady! How close the walls are together! How plainly you can
hear the waters of the moat licking the stones. Heaven have mercy! Help!
Help!”
Christopher’s foot had slipped on the wet slabs of the floor; he caught
at the wall but his hand had no power to clutch the dripping stones, and
he went down with a crash, which reached the locksmith, who sat in the
darkness, listening keenly. After a little Jacques heard a volley of
muttered curses, and slow footsteps, picking their way through the
distance. Then all was still, save the horrible lapping of waters
against the walls, and the hard breathing of his fellow-prisoner, who
seemed to stir faintly in the straw. For a half minute Jacques held his
breath, and listened for those footsteps, or that voice to renew
themselves. Then he reached cautiously forward and began to feel for
something in his tool-case. A moment of stillness followed, then the
sharp click of steel striking flint, and a few sparks of fire ignited on
the dungeon floor. Quick as thought the man sprung to his feet, snatched
a wisp of straw, and held it close to the sparks, blowing them with all
the slow strength of his lungs into a tiny flame.
The sparks flashed upward, the straw blazed, and for one instant the
whole dungeon was illuminated. Jacques caught one glance at a deadly
white face, with the eyes wide open, looking at him. He had no time for
recognition, but was searching for the candle. It lay at his feet, and
had been trodden upon. What of that? A wick was there, and tallow enough
to last a minute—he asked no more. He began to tremble, for the wick had
gathered moisture from the floor, and refused to ignite.
“Great God! stand by me this one minute!” he exclaimed, passionately,
forcing his hand to hold the burning straw with steadiness. He had given
the straw a twist, and it kept fire. The spluttering wick broke into an
uncertain flame, trembled, half went out, and rose to a clear light.
“Thank God!”
Jacques went close to the prisoner with these words on his lips. He held
the light down to that white face. The wild glitter of those eyes
frightened him.
“Speak to me! If you remember a name, tell it before any one comes.
Speak! For God’s sake, speak! Are you Dr. Gosner?”
The prisoner began to tremble violently; his thin hands clasped
themselves; every feature in his face quivered, and from his white lips
dropped these faltering words;
“That was my name when I had one.”
Jacques blew out the candle, and flung it into the darkness.