Chapter 31

"If the thing is to be done, you must get out as if you were escaping in good earnest. The wall between the two towers is, to my knowledge, at one place not over two feet thick; and on the other side, where there are nothing but bare grounds and the old ramparts, they never put a sentinel. I will get you a crowbar and a pickaxe, and you make a hole in the wall."

Jacques shrugged his shoulders.

"And the next day," he said, "when I am back, how will you explain that hole?"

Blangin smiled.

"Be sure," he replied, "I won't say the rats did it. I have thought of that too. At the same time with you, another prisoner will run off, who will not come back."

"What prisoner?"

"Trumence, to be sure. He will be delighted to get away, and he will help you in making the hole in the wall. You must make your bargain with him, but, of course, without letting him know that I know any thing. In this way, happen what may, I shall not be in danger."

The plan was really a good one; only Blangin ought not to have claimed the honor of inventing it: the idea came from his wife.

"Well," replied Jacques, "that is settled. Get me the pickaxe and the crowbar, show me the place where we must make the hole, and I will take charge of Trumence. To-morrow you shall have the money."

He was on the point of following the jailer, when Dionysia held him back; and, lifting up her beautiful eyes to him, she said in a tremor,--

"You see, Jacques, I have not hesitated to dare every thing in order to procure you a few house of liberty. May I not know what you are going to do in that time?"

And, as he made no reply, she repeated,--

"Where are you going?"

A rush of blood colored the face of the unfortunate man; and he said in an embarrassed voice,--

"I beseech you, Dionysia, do not insist upon my telling you. Permit me to keep this secret, the only one I have ever kept from you."

Two tears trembled for a moment in the long lashes of the young girl, and then silently rolled down her cheeks.

"I understand you," she stammered. "I understand but too well. Although I know so little of life, I had a presentiment, as soon as I saw that they were hiding something from me. Now I cannot doubt any longer. You will go to see a woman to-morrow"--

"Dionysia," Jacques said with folded hands,--"Dionysia, I beseech you!"

She did not hear him. Gently shaking her heard, she went on,--

"A woman whom you have loved, or whom you love still, at whose feet you have probably murmured the same words which you whispered at my feet. How could you think of her in the midst of all your anxieties? She cannot love you, I am sure. Why did she not come to you when she found that you were in prison, and falsely accused of an abominable crime?"

Jacques cold bear it no longer.

"Great God!" he cried, "I would a thousand times rather tell you every thing than allow such a suspicion to remain in your heart! Listen, and forgive me."

But she stopped him, putting her hand on his lips, and saying, all in a tremor,--

"No, I do not wish to know any thing,--nothing at all. I believe in you. Only you must remember that you are every thing to me,--hope, life, happiness. If you should have deceived me, I know but too well--poor me!--that I would not cease loving you; but I should not have long to suffer."

Overcome with grief and affection, Jacques repeated,--

"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.

XXVIII.

Jacques de Boiscoran went straight to Mautrec Street. But he knew with what horror he was looked upon by the population; and in order to avoid being recognized, and perhaps arrested, he did not take the most direct route, nor did he choose the more frequented streets. He went a long way around, and well-nigh lost himself in the winding, dark lanes of the old town. He walked along in Feverish haste, turning aside from the rare passers-by, pulling his felt hat down over his eyes, and, for still greater safety, holding his handkerchief over his face. It was nearly half-past nine when he at last reached the house inhabited by Count and Countess Claudieuse. The little gate had been taken out, and the great doors were closed.

Never mind! Jacques had his plan. He rang the bell.

A maid, who did not know him, came to the door.

"Is the Countess Claudieuse in?" he asked.

"The countess does not see anybody," replied the girl. "She is sitting up with the count, who is very ill to-night."

"But I must see her."

"Impossible."

"Tell her that a gentleman who has been sent by M. Galpin desires to see her for a moment. It is the Boiscoran affair."

"Why did you not say so at once?" said the servant. "Come in." And forgetting, in her hurry, to close the gates again, she went before Jacques through the garden, showed him into the vestibule, and then opened the parlor-door, saying,--

"Will you please go in here and sit down, while I go to tell the countess?"

After lighting one of the candles on the mantelpiece, she went out. So far, every thing had gone well for Jacques, and even better than he could have expected. Nothing remained now to be done, except to prevent the countess from going back and escaping, as soon as she should have recognized Jacques. Fortunately the parlor-door opened into the room. He went and put himself behind the open half, and waited there.

For twenty-four hours he had prepared himself for this interview, and arranged in his head the very words he would use. But now, at the last moment, all his ideas flew away, like dry leaves under the breath of a tempest. His heart was beating with such violence, that he thought it filled the whole room with the noise. He imagined he was cool, and, in fact, he possessed that lucidity which gives to certain acts of madmen an appearance of sense.

He was surprised at being kept waiting so long, when, at last, light steps, and the rustling of a dress, warned him that the countess was coming.

She came in, dressed in a long, dark, undress robe, and took a few steps into the room, astonished at not seeing the person who was waiting for her.

It was exactly as Jacques had foreseen.

He pushed to, violently, the open half of the door; and, placing himself before her, he said,--

"We are alone!"

She turned round at the noise, and cried,--

"Jacques!"

And terrified, as if she had seen a ghost, she looked all around, hoping to see a way out. One of the tall windows of the room, which went down to the ground, was half open, and she rushed towards it; but Jacques anticipated her, and said,--

"Do not attempt to escape; for I swear I should pursue you into your husband's room, to the foot of his bed."

She looked at him as if she did not comprehend.

"You," she stammered,--"you here!"

"Yes," he replied, "I am here. You are astonished, are you? You said to yourself, 'He is in prison, well kept under lock and key: I can sleep in peace. No evidence can be found. He will not speak. I have committed the crime, and he will be punished for it. I am guilty; but I shall escape. He is innocent, and he is lost.' You thought it was all settled? Well, no, it is not. I am here!"

An expression of unspeakable horror contracted the beautiful features of the countess. She said,--

"This is monstrous!"

"Monstrous indeed!"

"Murderer! Incendiary!"

He burst out laughing, a strident, convulsive, terrible laughter.

"And you," he said, "you call me so?"

By one great effort the Countess Claudieuse recovered her energy.

"Yes," she replied, "yes, I do! You cannot deny your crime to me. I know, I know the motives which the judges do not even guess. You thought I would carry out my threats, and you were frightened. When I left you in such haste, you said to yourself, 'It is all over: she will tell her husband.' And then you kindled that fire in order to draw my husband out of the house, you incendiary! And then you fired at my husband, you murderer!"

He was still laughing.

"And that is your plan?" he broke in. "Who do you think will believe such an absurd story? Our letters were burnt; and, if you deny having been my mistress, I can just as well deny having been your lover. And, besides, would the exposure do me any harm? You know very well it would not. You are perfectly aware, that, as society is with us, the same thing which disgraces a woman rather raises a man in the estimate of the world. And as to my being afraid of Count Claudieuse, it is well known that I am afraid of nobody. At the time when we were concealing our love in the house in Vine Street, yes, at that time, I might have been afraid of your husband; for he might have surprised us there, the code in one hand, a revolver in the other, and have availed himself of that stupid and savage law which makes the husband the judge of his own case, and the executor of the sentence which he himself pronounces. But setting aside such a case, the case of being taken in the act, which allows a man to kill like a dog another man, who can not or will not defend himself, what did I care for Count Claudieuse? What did I care for your threats or for his hatred?" He said these words with perfect calmness, but with that cold, cutting tone which is as sharp as a sword, and with that positiveness which enters irresistibly into the mind. The countess was tottering, and stammered almost inaudibly,--

"Who would imagine such a thing? Is it possible?"

Then, suddenly raising her head, she said,--

"But I am losing my senses. If you are innocent, who, then, could be the guilty man?"

Jacques seized her hands almost madly, and pressing them painfully, and bending over her so closely that she felt his hot breath like a flame touching her face, he hissed into her ear,--

"You, wretched creature, you!"

And then pushing her from him with such violence that she fell into a chair, he continued,--

"You, who wanted to be a widow in order to prevent me from breaking the chains in which you held me. At our last meeting, when I thought you were crushed by grief, and felt overcome by your hypocritical tears, I was weak enough, I was stupid enough, to say that I married Dionysia only because you were not free. Then you cried, 'O God, how happy I am that that idea did not occur to me before!' What idea was that, Genevieve? Come, answer me and confess, that it occurred to you too soon after all, since you have carried it out?"

And repeating with crushing irony the words just uttered by the countess, he said,--

"If you are innocent, who, then, would be the guilty man?"

Quite beside herself, she sprang up from her chair, and casting at Jacques one of those glances which seem to enter through our eyes into the very heart of our hearts, she asked,--

"Is it really possible that you have not committed this abominable crime?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"But then," she repeated, almost panting, "is it true, can it really be true, that you think I have committed it?"

"Perhaps you have only ordered it to be committed."

With a wild gesture she raised her arms to heaven, and cried in a heart-rending voice,--

"O God, O God! He believes it! he really believes it!"

There followed great silence, dismal, formidable silence, such as in nature follows the crash of the thunderbolt.

Standing face to face, Jacques and the Countess Claudieuse looked at each other madly, feeling that the fatal hour in their lives had come at last.

Each felt a growing, a sure conviction of the other. There was no need of explanations. They had been misled by appearances: they acknowledged it; they were sure of it.

And this discovery was so fearful, so overwhelming, that neither thought of who the real guilty one might be.

"What is to be done?" asked the countess.

"The truth must be told," replied Jacques.

"Which?"

"That I have been your lover; that I went to Valpinson by appointment with you; that the cartridge-case which was found there was used by me to get fire; that my blackened hands were soiled by the half-burnt fragment of our letters, which I had tried to scatter."

"Never!" cried the countess.

Jacques's face turned crimson, as he said with an accent of merciless severity,--

"It shall be told! I will have it so, and it must be done!"

The countess seemed to be furious.

"Never!" she cried again, "never!"

And with convulsive haste she added,--

"Do you not see that the truth cannot possibly be told. They would never believe in our innocence. They would only look upon us as accomplices."

"Never mind. I am not willing to die."

"Say that you will not die alone."

"Be it so."

"To confess every thing would never save you, but would most assuredly ruin me. Is that what you want? Would your fate appear less cruel to you, if there were two victims instead of one?"

He stopped her by a threatening gesture, and cried,--

"Are you always the same? I am sinking, I am drowning; and she calculates, she bargains! And she said she loved me!"

"Jacques!" broke in the countess.

And drawing close up to him, she said,--

"Ah! I calculate, I bargain? Well, listen. Yes, it is true. I did value my reputation as an honest woman more highly, a thousand times more, than my life; but, above my life and my reputation, I valued you. You are drowning, you say. Well, then, let us flee. One word from you, and I leave all,--honor, country, family, husband, children. Say one word, and I follow you without turning my head, without a regret, without a remorse."

Her whole body was shivering from head to foot; her bosom rose and fell; her eyes shone with unbearable brilliancy.

Thanks to the violence of her action, her dress, put on in great haste, had opened, and her dishevelled hair flowed in golden masses over her bosom and her shoulders, which matched the purest marble in their dazzling whiteness.

And in a voice trembling with pent-up passion, now sweet and soft like a tender caress, and now deep and sonorous like a bell, she went on,--

"What keeps us? Since you have escaped from prison, the greatest difficulty is overcome. I thought at first of taking our girl, your girl, Jacques; but she is very ill; and besides a child might betray us. If we go alone, they will never overtake us. We will have money enough, I am sure, Jacques. We will flee to those distant countries which appear in books of travels in such fairy-like beauty. There, unknown, forgotten, unnoticed, our life will be one unbroken enjoyment. You will never again say that I bargain. I will be yours, entirely, and solely yours, body and soul, your wife, your slave."

She threw her head back, and with half-closed eyes, bending with her whole person toward him, she said in melting tones,--

"Say, Jacques, will you? Jacques!"

He pushed her aside with a fierce gesture. It seemed to him almost a sacrilege that she also, like Dionysia, should propose to him to flee.

"Rather the galleys!" he cried.

She turned deadly pale; a spasm of rage convulsed her features; and drawing back, stiff and stern, she said,--

"What else do you want?"

"Your help to save me," he replied.

"At the risk of ruining myself?"

He made no reply.

Then she, who had just now been all humility, raised herself to her full height, and in a tone of bitterest sarcasm said slowly,--

"In other words, you want me to sacrifice myself, and at the same time all my family. For your sake? Yes, but even more for Miss Chandore's sake. And you think that it is quite a simple thing. I am the past to you, satiety, disgust: she is the future to you, desire, happiness. And you think it quite natural that the old love should make a footstool of her love and her honor for the new love? You think little of my being disgraced, provided she be honored; of my weeping bitterly, if she but smile? Well, no, no! it is madness in you to come and ask me to save you, so that you may throw yourself into the arms of another. It is madness, when in order to tear you from Dionysia, I am ready to ruin myself, provided only that you be lost to her forever."