Chapter II.10
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."
But Dionysia seized his arm, and said in an almost inaudible voice,-- "Wait a moment."
She was almost overcome by so many successive emotions. She felt her legs give way under her, and her eyes become dim. In her heart she preserved all her usual energy; but the flesh escaped from her will and failed her at the last moment.
"Are you sick?" asked the jailer. "What is the matter?"
She prayed to God for courage and strength: when her prayer was finished, she said,-- "Now, let us go in."
And, making a great noise with the keys and the bolts, Blangin opened the door to Jacques de Boiscoran's cell.
Jacques counted no longer the days, but the hours. He had been imprisoned on Friday morning, June 23, and this was Wednesday night, June 28, He had been a hundred and thirty-two hours, according to the graphic description of a great writer, "living, but struck from the roll of the living, and buried alive."
Each one of these hundred and thirty-two hours had weighed upon him like a month. Seeing him pale and haggard, with his hair and beard in disorder, and his eyes shining brightly with fever, like half- extinguished coals, one would hardly have recognized in him the happy lord of Boiscoran, free from care and trouble, upon whom fortune had ever smiled,--that haughty sceptical young man, who from the height of the past defied the future.
The fact is, that society, obliged to defend itself against criminals, has invented no more fearful suffering than what is called "close confinement." There is nothing that will sooner demoralize a man, crush his will, and utterly conquer the most powerful energy. There is no struggle more distressing than the struggle between an innocent man accused of some crime, and the magi