"No, they all had to ask permission; the Duc de Richelieu remained for a month with a beard like a patriarch."
"I find it difficult to reconcile such severity in detail with the liberty I have just seen."
"Monsieur, I also have my privileges, which do not extend to giving you books, razors, or pens, but which allow me to invite to my table such prisoners as I choose to favor—always supposing that it is a favor. True, it is stipulated that I shall give an account of anything which is spoken against the government, but by preventing my guests from touching on politics, I avoid the necessity of betraying them."
"Is it not feared, monsieur," said Gaston, "that this intimacy between you and your prisoners should lead to indulgences on your part, which might be contrary to the intentions of the government?"
"I know my duty, monsieur, and keep within its strict limits; I receive my orders from the court, and my guests—who know that I have nothing to do with them—bear me no ill will for them. I hope you will do the same."
"The precaution was not unnecessary," said Gaston, "for doubtless I shall not long be left in the enjoyment of the pleasure I have had to-day."
"You have doubtless some protector at court?"
"None," said Gaston.
"Then you must trust to chance, monsieur."
"I have never found it propitious."
"The more reason that it should weary of persecuting you."
"I am a Breton, and Bretons trust only in God."
"Take that as my meaning when I said chance."
Gaston retired, charmed with the manners and attentions of M. de Launay.
Gaston had already, on the preceding night, asked for a light, and been told that it was against the rules—this night he did not renew the request, but went quietly to bed; his morning's visit to the torture-room had given him a lesson in philosophy.
Thus, rather from youthful carelessness than from force of will or courage, he slept quietly and soundly.
He did not know how long he had slept when he was awoke by the sound of a small bell, which seemed to be in his room, although he could see neither bell nor ringer; it is true that the room was very dark, even by day, and doubly so at that hour. The bell, however, continued to sound distinctly, but with caution, as though it were afraid of being heard. Gaston thought the sound seemed to come from the chimney.
He rose, and approaching it gently, became convinced that he was right.
Presently he heard blows struck—under the floor on which he stepped—at regular intervals, with some blunt instrument.
It was evident that these were signals among the prisoners.
Gaston went to the window to raise the curtain of green serge which intercepted the rays of the moon, and in doing so he perceived an object hanging at the end of a string and swinging before the bars.
"Good," said he; "it appears that I shall have occupation, but each one in turn; regularity above all things; let us see what the bell wants, that was the first."
Gaston returned to the chimney, extended his hand, and soon felt a string, at the end of which a bell was hanging, he pulled, but it resisted.
"Good," said a voice, which came down the chimney, "you are there?"
"Yes," said Gaston; "what do you want?"
"Parbleu, I want to talk."
"Very well," said the chevalier, "let us talk."
"Are you not M. de Chanlay, with whom I had the pleasure of dining to-day?"
"Exactly so, monsieur."
"In that case I am at your service."
"And I at yours."
"Then have the goodness to tell me the state of the Bretagne affairs."
"You see they are in the Bastille."
"Good," said a voice, whose joyous tone Gaston could hear with ease.
"Pardon me," said Gaston, "but what interest have you in these affairs?"
"Why, when affairs are bad in Bretagne, they treat us well, and when they prosper we are treated badly; thus the other day, apropos of some affair, I do not know what, which they pretended was connected with ours, we were all put in the dungeon."
"Ah, diable!" said Gaston to himself, "if you do not know, I do." Then he added, aloud, "Well then, monsieur, be content, they are very bad, and that is perhaps the reason why we had the pleasure of dining together to-day."
"Eh, monsieur, are you compromised?"
"I fear so."
"Receive my excuses."
"I beg you, on the contrary, to accept mine, but I have a neighbor below who is becoming impatient, and who is striking hard enough to break the boards of my floor; permit me to reply to him."
"Do so, monsieur; if my topographical calculations are correct, it must be the Marquis de Pompadour."
"It will be difficult to ascertain."
"Not so difficult as you suppose."
"How so?"
"Does he not strike in a peculiar manner?"
"Yes; has it a meaning?"
"Certainly; it is our method of talking without direct communication."
"Have the kindness to give me the key to the vocabulary."
"It is not difficult; every letter has a rank in the alphabet."
"Decidedly."
"There are twenty-four letters."
"I have never counted them, but no doubt you are right."
"Well, one blow for a, two for b, three for c, and so on."
"I understand, but this method of communication must be somewhat lengthy, and I see a string at my window which is getting impatient—I will strike a blow or two to show my neighbor that I have heard him, and then attend to the string."
"Go, monsieur, I beg, for if I am not mistaken that string is of importance to me; but first strike three blows on the floor—in Bastille language that means patience; the prisoner will then wait for a new signal."
Gaston struck three blows with the leg of his chair, and the noise ceased.
He then went to the window.
It was not easy to reach the bars, but he at length succeeded in doing so and raising the string, which was gently pulled by some hand as a sign of acknowledgment.
Gaston drew the packet—which would scarcely pass the bars—toward him; it contained a pot of sweetmeats and a book. He saw that there was something written on the paper which covered the pot, but it was too dark to read it.
The string vibrated gently, to show that an answer was expected, and Gaston, remembering his neighbor's lesson, took a broom, which he saw in the corner, and struck three blows on the ceiling.
This, it will be remembered, meant patience.
The prisoner withdrew the string, freed from its burden.
Gaston returned to the chimney.
"Eh! monsieur," said he.
"All right, what is it?"
"I have just received, by means of a string, a pot of sweets and a book."
"Is not there something written on one of them?"
"About the book I do not know, but there is on the pot; unfortunately it is too dark to read."
"Wait," said the voice, "I will send a light."
"I thought lights were forbidden."
"Yes, but I have procured one."
"Well, then send it, for I am as impatient as you to know what is written to me." And Gaston, feeling cold, began to dress himself.
All at once he saw a light in his chimney; the bell came down again transformed into a lantern.
This transformation was effected in the most simple manner, the bell turned upside down, so as to form a vessel, into which some oil had been poured, and in the oil burned a little wick.
Gaston found this so ingenious that for a moment he forgot both the pot and the book. "Monsieur," said he to his neighbor, "may I, without indiscretion, ask you how you procured the different objects with which you fabricated this lamp?"
"Nothing more simple, monsieur; I asked for a bell, which was given me, then I saved some oil from my breakfasts and dinners, till I had a bottle full; I made wicks by unraveling one of my handkerchiefs; I picked up a pebble when I was walking in the yard; I made some tinder with burned linen; I stole some matches when I dined at the governor's: then I struck a light with a knife, which I possess; and with the aid of which I made the hole through which we correspond."
"Receive my compliments, monsieur, you are a man of great invention."
"Thank you, monsieur; will you now see what book has been sent you, and what is written on the paper of the pot of sweetmeats."
"Monsieur, the book is a Virgil."
"That is it—she promised it to me," cried the voice, in an accent of happiness which surprised the chevalier, who could not understand that a Virgil should be so impatiently expected.
"Now," said the prisoner with the bell, "pass on, I beg, to the pot of sweetmeats."
"Willingly," said Gaston, and he read:
"Monsieur le Chevalier—I hear from the lieutenant of the prison that you occupy the room on the first floor, which has a window immediately below mine. Prisoners should aid and help each other; eat the sweetmeats, and pass the Virgil up to the Chevalier Dumesnil, whose chimney looks into the court."
"Monsieur le Chevalier—I hear from the lieutenant of the prison that you occupy the room on the first floor, which has a window immediately below mine. Prisoners should aid and help each other; eat the sweetmeats, and pass the Virgil up to the Chevalier Dumesnil, whose chimney looks into the court."
"That is what is expected," said the prisoner with the bell; "I was told at dinner to-day that I should receive this message."
"Then you are the Chevalier Dumesnil?"
"Yes, monsieur, and your humble servant."
"I am yours," replied Gaston, "I have to thank you for a pot of sweetmeats, and I shall not forget my obligation."
"In that case, monsieur," replied the prisoner, "have the kindness to detach the bell, and fasten on the Virgil instead."
"But if you have not the light, you cannot read."
"Oh, I will make another lantern."
Gaston, who trusted to his neighbor's ingenuity, after the proofs he had had of it, made no further difficulties; he took the bell, which he placed in the neck of an empty bottle, and fastened on the Virgil, conscientiously replacing a letter which fell from between the leaves.
"Thank you, monsieur," said Dumesnil; "and now, if you will reply to your neighbor below?"
"You give me liberty?"
"Yes, monsieur; though presently I shall make an appeal to your good nature."
"At your orders, monsieur; you say, then, that for the letters——?"
"One blow for A.; twenty-four for Z."
"Thank you."
The chevalier struck a blow with the handle of the broom, to give notice to his neighbor that he was ready to enter into conversation with him; it was instantly answered by another blow.
At the end of half an hour the prisoners had succeeded in saying this—
"Good-evening, monsieur; what is your name?"
"Thank you, monsieur; I am the Chevalier Gaston de Chanlay."
"And I, the Marquis de Pompadour."
At this moment Gaston, looking toward the windows, saw the string shaking convulsively.
He struck three blows, to ask for patience, and returned to the chimney.
"Monsieur," said he to Dumesnil, "I beg you to remember that the string at the window seems prodigiously ennuyé."
"Beg her to have patience; I will attend to her presently."
Gaston renewed the signal for patience on the ceiling, and then returned to the chimney, and the Virgil soon returned.
"Monsieur," said Dumesnil, "have the goodness to fasten the Virgil to the string; that is what she wants."
Gaston had the curiosity to see if Dumesnil had replied to Mademoiselle de Launay. He opened the Virgil; there was no letter, but some words were underlined in pencil, and Gaston read: "Meos amores," and "Carceris oblivia longa." He understood this method of correspondence, which consisted in underlining words which, placed together, made sense.
"Ah," said Gaston, fastening the book to the string, "it seems that I have become the postman."
Then he sighed deeply, remembering that he had no means of corresponding with Helene, and that she was entirely ignorant what had become of him. This gave him sympathy for the attachment of Mademoiselle de Launay and the Chevalier Dumesnil. He returned to the chimney.
"Monsieur," said he, "your letter is dispatched."
"A thousand thanks, chevalier. Now a word more, and I will leave you to sleep in peace."
"Oh, say whatever you wish, monsieur."
"Have you spoken with the prisoner below?"
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
"The Marquis de Pompadour."
"I thought so. What did he say?"
"'Good-evening,' and asked who I was; he had no time to ask more; the method of communication is not as expeditious as it is ingenious."
"You must make a hole, and then you can talk as we do."
"What with?"
"I will lend you my knife."
"Thank you."
"It will serve to amuse you, at least."
"Give it me."
"Here it is."
And the knife fell at Gaston's feet.
"Now, shall I send back the bell?"
"Yes; for my jailers might miss it to-morrow morning, and you do not want light for your conversation with Pompadour."
"No; certainly not."
And the bell was drawn up.
"Now," said the chevalier, "you must have something to drink with your sweets, and I will send you a bottle of champagne."
"Thank you," said Gaston, "do not deprive yourself of it; I do not care much for it."
"Then when you have made the hole, you shall pass it to Pompadour, who is of a very different opinion. Stay, here it is."
"Thank you, chevalier."
"Good-night."
"Good-night."
And the string ascended.
Gaston looked for the string at the window, and saw that it had disappeared.
"Ah," sighed he, "the Bastille would be a palace for me, if my poor Helene were in Mademoiselle de Launay's place."
Then he resumed a conversation with Pompadour, which lasted till three in the morning, and in which he told him that he was going to pierce a hole, that they might have more direct communication.
Thus occupied, Gaston was more uneasy than ennuyé; besides, he found another source of amusement. Mademoiselle de Launay, who obtained whatever she liked from the lieutenant, Maison-Rouge, provided her request were only accompanied by a sweet smile, obtained paper and pens; she had sent some to Dumesnil, who had shared them with Gaston, with whom he still communicated, and with Richelieu, with whom also he managed to correspond. Then Gaston formed the idea of making some verses to Helene.
On his part, the Chevalier Dumesnil made some for Mademoiselle de Launay, who made them in return for him, so that the Bastille was a true Parnassus. There was only Richelieu who dishonored the society by writing prose.
Time passed, as it will pass, even in the Bastille.
Gaston was asked if he would like to attend mass, and as he was deeply religious, he had assented most gladly. The next day they came to fetch him.
The mass was celebrated in a little church, having, instead of chapels, separate closets, with bulls-eye windows into the choir, so that they could only see the officiating priest at the moment of elevation, and he could not see the prisoners at all.
Gaston saw M. de Laval and the Duc de Richelieu, who had apparently come to mass for the purpose of talking, for they knelt side by side, and kept up an incessant whispering. Monsieur de Laval appeared to have some important news to communicate, and kept looking at Gaston as though he were interested in it. As neither spoke to him, however, except in the way of mere salutation, he asked no questions.
When the mass was over, the prisoners were taken back. As they crossed a dark corridor, Gaston passed a man who seemed to be an employé of the house. This man sought Gaston's hand, and slipped a paper into it, which he put quietly into his waistcoat pocket.
When he was alone in his own room he eagerly took it out. It was written on sugar paper, with the point of a sharpened coal, and contained this line—"Feign illness from ennui."
It seemed to Gaston that the writing was not unknown to him, but it was so roughly traced that it was difficult to recognize. He waited for the evening impatiently, that he might consult with the Chevalier Dumesnil.
At night Gaston told him what had passed, asking him, as he had a longer acquaintance with the Bastille, what he thought of the advice of his unknown correspondent.
"Ma foi, though I do not understand the advice, I should follow it, for it cannot hurt you; the worse that can happen is, that they may give you less to eat."
"But," said Gaston, "suppose they discover the illness to be feigned."
"Oh! as to that," replied Dumesnil, "the doctor is entirely ignorant, and will give you whatever you may ask for; perhaps they will let you walk in the garden, and that would be a great amusement."
Gaston consulted Mademoiselle de Launay, whose advice, by logic or sympathy, was the same as that of the chevalier; but she added,
"If they diet you, let me know, and I will send you chicken, sweets, and Bordeaux."
Pompadour did not reply; the hole was not yet pierced.
Gaston then played the sick man, did not eat what they sent him, relying on his neighbor's liberality. At the end of the second day M. de Launay appeared—he had been told that Gaston was eating nothing, and he found the prisoner in bed.
"Monsieur," he said, "I fear you are suffering, and have come to see you."
"You are too good, monsieur," said Gaston; "it is true that I am suffering."
"What is the matter?"
"Ma foi, monsieur, I do not know that there is any amour propre here; I am ennuyé in this place."
"What, in four or five days?"
"From the first hour."
"What kind of ennui do you feel?"
"Are there several?"
"Certainly—one pines for his family."
"I have none."
"For his mistress."
Gaston sighed.
"For one's country."
"Yes," said Gaston, "it is that," seeing that he must say something.
The governor appeared to reflect.
"Monsieur," said he, "since I have been governor of the Bastille, my only agreeable moments have been those in which I have been of service to the gentlemen confided to my care by the king. I am ready to do anything for you if you will promise to be reasonable."
"I promise you, monsieur."
"I can put you in communication with one of your compatriots, or at least with a man who seems to know Bretagne perfectly."
"Is he a prisoner?"
"Like yourself."
A vague sentiment passed through Gaston's mind that it must be this man who had slipped the note into his hand. "I should be very grateful if you would do this," said he.
"Well, to-morrow you shall see him; but as I am recommended to be strict with him, you can only remain with him an hour, and as he may not quit his chamber, you must go to him."
"As you please, monsieur," said Gaston.
"Then it is decided; at five o'clock expect me or the major; but it is on one condition."
"What is it?"
"That in consideration of this distraction you will eat a little to-day."
"I will try."
Gaston eat a little chicken and drank a little wine to keep his promise.
In the evening he told Dumesnil what had passed.
"Ma foi," said he, "you are lucky; the Count de Laval had the same idea, and all he got was to be put into a room in the tower Du Tresor, where he said he was dreadfully dull, and had no amusement but speaking to the prison apothecary."
"Diable!" said Gaston, "why did you not tell me that before?"
"I had forgotten it."
This tardy recollection troubled Gaston somewhat; placed as he was between Pompadour, Dumesnil, and Mademoiselle de Launay, his position was tolerable; if he were to be removed, he would be really attacked by the malady he had feigned.
At the appointed time the major of the Bastille came, and led Gaston across several courts, and they stopped at the tower Du Tresor. Every tower had its separate name.
In the room number one was a prisoner asleep on a folding bed, with his back turned to the light; the remains of his dinner were by him on a worn-out wooden table, and his costume, torn in many places, indicated a man of low station.
"Ouais," said Gaston, "did they think that I was so fond of Bretagne, that any fellows who happened to have been born at Nismes or at Penmarch may be raised to the rank of my Pylades? No, this fellow is too ragged, and seems to eat too much; but as one must not be too capricious in prison, let us make use of the hour—I will recount my adventure to Mademoiselle de Launay, and she will put it into verse for the Chevalier Dumesnil."
Gaston was now alone with the prisoner, who yawned and turned in his bed.
"Ugh! how cold it is in this cursed Bastille," said he, rubbing his nose.
"That voice, that gesture—it is he!" said Gaston, and he approached the bed.
"What," cried the prisoner, sitting up in bed, and looking at Gaston, "you here, M. de Chanlay?"
"Captain la Jonquiere," cried Gaston.
"Myself—that is to say, I am the person you name; but my name is changed."
"To what?"——"First Tresor."
"What?"
"First Tresor. It is a custom in the Bastille for the prisoner to take the name of his room—that saves the turnkey the trouble of remembering names; however, if the Bastille be full, and two or three prisoners in the same room, they take two numbers; for example: I am first Tresor, if you were put here you would be first Tresor number two; another would be first Tresor number three—the jailers have a kind of Latin literature for this."
"Yes, I understand," said Gaston, watching La Jonquiere intently; "then you are a prisoner?"
"Parbleu, you see for yourself; I presume we are neither of us here for pleasure."
"Then we are discovered."
"I am afraid so."
"Thanks to you."
"How to me?" cried La Jonquiere, feigning surprise. "No jokes, I beg."
"You have made revelations, traitor!"
"I! come, come, young man, you are mad; you ought not to be in the Bastille, but in the Petites Maisons."
"Do not deny it, M. d'Argenson told me!"
"D'Argenson; pardieu, the authority is good; and do you know what he told me?"
"No."
"That you had denounced me."
"Monsieur!"
"Well; what then? Are we to cut each other's throats because the police has followed out its trade and lied?"
"But how could he discover?"
"I ask the same of you. But one thing is certain; if I had told anything, I should not be here. You have not seen much of me, but you ought to know that I should not be fool enough to give information gratis; revelations are bought and sold, monsieur, and I know that Dubois pays high for them."
"Perhaps you are right," said Gaston; "but at least let us bless the chance which brings us together."
"Certainly."
"You do not appear enchanted, nevertheless."
"I am only moderately so, I confess."
"Captain!"
"Ah, monsieur, how bad-tempered you are."
"I?"
"Yes; you are always getting angry. I like my solitude; that does not speak."
"Monsieur!"
"Again. Now listen. Do you believe, as you say, that chance has brought us together?"
"What should it be?"
"Some combination of our jailers—of D'Argenson's, or perhaps Dubois's."
"Did you not write to me?"
"I?"
"Telling me to feign illness from ennui."
"And how should I have written?—on what?—by whom?"
Gaston reflected; and this time it was La Jonquiere who watched him.
"Then," said the captain presently, "I think, on the contrary, that it is to you we owe the pleasure of meeting in the Bastille."
"To me, monsieur?"
"Yes, chevalier; you are too confiding. I give you that information in case you leave here; but more particularly in case you remain here."
"Thank you."
"Have you noticed if you were followed?"
"No."
"A conspirator should never look before, but always behind him."
Gaston confessed that he had not taken this precaution.
"And the duke," asked La Jonquiere, "is he arrested?"
"I know not; I was going to ask you."
"Peste! that is disagreeable. You took a young woman to him?"
"You know that."
"Ah! my dear fellow, everything becomes known. Did not she give the information? Ah! woman, woman!"
"This was a brave girl, monsieur; I would answer for her discretion, courage, and devotion."
"Yes, I understand. We love her—so she is honey and gold. What an idea of a conspiracy you must have to take a woman to the chief of the plot!"
"But I told her nothing; and she could know no secrets of mine but such as she may have surprised."
"She has a keen eye."
"And if she knew my projects, I am convinced she would never have spoken."
"Oh, monsieur, without counting her natural disposition to that exercise, can we not always make a woman speak? Some one might have said, without any preparation 'Your love for M. de Chanlay will lose your head'—I will wager that she will speak."
"There is no danger—she loves me too much."
"That is the very reason, pardieu! that she would chatter like a magpie, and that we are both caged up. However, let us drop this. What do you do here?"
"Amuse myself."
"Amuse yourself—how?"
"With making verses, eating sweets, and making holes in the floor."
"Holes in the king's boards?" said La Jonquiere. "Oh, oh! that is good to know. Does not M. de Launay scold?"
"He does not know it; besides, I am not singular—everybody makes a hole in something; one his floor, the other his chimney, the next his wall. Do you not make holes in something?"
La Jonquiere looked to see if Gaston were not laughing at him.
"But now, monsieur," said La Jonquiere, "let us speak seriously. Are you condemned to death?"
"I?"
"Yes, you."
"You say that coolly."
"It is a habit in the Bastille. There are twenty here condemned to death, and not a bit the worse for it."
"I have been interrogated."
"Ah! you see."
"But I do not believe I am condemned."
"That will come."
"My dear captain, do you know that, although you do not look so, you are marvelously merry?"
"You think so?"
"Yes."
"Does it astonish you?"
"I did not know you were so brave."
"Then you would regret life?"
"I confess it; I only want one thing to make me happy, and that is to live."
"And you became a conspirator with a chance of happiness before you? I do not understand you; I thought people conspired from despair, as they marry when they have no other resource."
"When I joined the conspiracy I did not love."
"And afterward?"
"I would not draw back."
"Bravo! that is what I call character. Have you been tortured?"
"No; but I had a narrow escape."
"Then you will be."
"Why so?"
"Because I have been; and it would be unfair to treat us differently. Look at the state of my clothes."
"Which did they give you?" asked Gaston, shuddering at the recollection of what had passed between D'Argenson and himself.
"The water. They made me drink a barrel and a half; my stomach was like a bladder; I did not think I could have held so much."
"And did you suffer much?" asked Gaston, with interest.
"Yes; but my temperament is robust—the next day I thought no more of it. It is true that since then I have drunk a great deal of wine. If you have to choose, select the water—it cleans. All the mixtures doctors give us are only a means of making us swallow water. Fangon says the best doctor he ever heard of was Doctor Sangrado; he only existed in Le Sage's brain, or he would have done miracles."
"You know Fangon?" asked Gaston, surprised.
"By reputation; besides, I have read his works. But do you intend to persist in saying nothing?"
"Doubtless."
"You are right. I should tell you, if you regret life so much as you say, to whisper a few words to M. d'Argenson, but he is a talker who would reveal your confession."
"I will not speak, be assured; these are points on which I do not need strengthening."
"I believe it; pardieu! you seem to me like Sardanapalus in your tower. Here I have only M. de Laval, who takes medicine three times a day—it is an amusement he has invented. Well, tastes differ; and perhaps he wants to get accustomed to the water."
"But did you not say I should certainly be condemned?"
"Do you wish to know the whole truth?"
"Yes."
"Well, D'Argenson told me that you were."
Gaston turned pale, in spite of his courage. La Jonquiere remarked it.
"However," said he, "I believe you might save yourself by certain revelations."
"Why, do you think I should do what you refused?"
"Our characters and our positions are different—I am no longer young—I am not in love—I do not leave a mistress in tears." Gaston sighed.
"You see there is a great difference between us; when did you ever hear me sigh like that?"
"Ah! if I die, his excellency will take care of Helene."
"And if he be arrested?"
"You are right."
"Then—"
"God will protect her."
"Decidedly you are young," said La Jonquiere.
"Explain."
"Suppose his excellency be not arrested?"
"Well."
"What age is he?"
"Forty-five or six, I suppose."
"And if he fell in love with Helene; is not that her name?"
"The duke fall in love with her! he to whose protection I confided her! it would be infamous!"
"The world is full of infamy; that is how it gets on."
"Oh, I will not dwell on such a thought."
"I do not tell you to dwell on it; I only suggested it for you to make what use you liked of."
"Hush," said Gaston, "some one is coming."
"Have you asked for anything?"
"No."
"Then the time allowed for your visit is out," and La Jonquiere threw himself quickly on his bed.
The bolts creaked, the door opened, and the governor appeared.
"Well, monsieur," said he to Gaston; "does your companion suit you?"
"Yes, particularly as I know Captain la Jonquiere."
"That makes my task more delicate; but, however, I made you an offer, and I will not draw back. I will permit one visit daily, at any hour you please: shall it be morning or evening?"
Gaston looked at La Jonquiere.
"Say five in the evening," said La Jonquiere, quickly.
"In the evening at five o'clock, if you please."
"The same as to-day, then?"
"Yes."
"It shall be as you desire, monsieur."
Gaston and La Jonquiere exchanged a glance, and the chevalier was taken back to his chamber.
It was half-past six, and quite dark; the chevalier's first act on being left in his room was to run to the chimney.
"Chevalier," said he.
Dumesnil replied.
"I have paid my visit."
"Well?"
"I have found an acquaintance, if not a friend."
"A new prisoner."
"Of the same date as myself."
"His name?"
"Captain la Jonquiere."
"What?"
"Do you know him?"
"Yes!"
"Then do me a favor: what is he?"
"Oh, an enemy of the regent's."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite; he was in our conspiracy, and only withdrew because we preferred abduction to assassination."
"Then he was—?"
"For assassination."
"That is it," murmured Gaston; "he is a man to be trusted."
"If it be the same I mean, he lives in the Rue Bourdonnais, at the Muids d'Amour."
"The same."
"Then he is a safe man."
"That is well," said Gaston, "for he holds the lives of four brave gentlemen in his hands."
"Of whom you are one."
"No, I put myself aside, for it seems all is over with me."
"How all is over?"
"Yes, I am condemned."
"To what?"
"To death."
There was a moment's silence.
"Impossible!" cried the Chevalier Dumesnil, at length.
"Why impossible?"
"Because, if I be not mistaken, your affair is attached to ours."
"It follows on it."
"Well?"
"Well."
"Our affairs prospering, yours cannot go wrong."
"And who says you are prospering?"
"Listen, for with you I will have no secrets."
"I am listening."
"Mademoiselle de Launay wrote me this yesterday. She was walking with Maison-Rouge, who, as you know, loves her, and at whom we both laugh, but who is useful to us. On pretext of illness, she asked, as you did, for a doctor; he told her that the prison doctor was at her orders. I must tell you that we have known this doctor intimately; his name is Herment.
"However, she did not hope to get much out of him, for he is a timid man; but when he entered the garden, where she was walking, and gave her a consultation in the open air, he said to her, 'Hope!' In the mouth of any one else this would have been nothing—in his it was a vast deal; sinceweare told to hope,youhave nothing to fear, as our affairs are intimately connected."
"However," said Gaston, "La Jonquiere seemed sure of what he said."
At this moment Pompadour knocked.
Gaston went to the hole, which, with the aid of his knife, he soon made practicable.
"Ask the Chevalier Dumesnil if he does not know anything more from Mademoiselle de Launay."
"About what?"
"One of us; I overheard some words between the governor and the major at my door—they were, 'condemned to death.'" Gaston shuddered.
"Be easy, marquis; I believe they spoke of me."
"Diable! that would not make me easy at all; firstly, because we have quickly become friends, and I should be grieved if anything were to happen to you; and, secondly, because what happened to you might well happen to us, our affairs being so similar."
"And you believe that Mademoiselle de Launay could remove your doubts."
"Yes, her windows look on the arsenal."
"Well."
"She would have seen if there were anything new going on there to-day."
"Ah! she is striking now!"
At that moment Mademoiselle de Launay struck two blows, which meant attention.
Gaston replied by one, which meant that he was listening.
Then he went to the window.
A minute after the string appeared with a letter.
Gaston took the letter, and went to the hole to Pompadour.
"Well?" said the marquis.
"A letter," replied Gaston.
"What does she say?"
"I cannot see, but I will send it to Dumesnil, who will read it."
"Make haste."
"Pardon," said Gaston, "I am as anxious as you;" and he ran to the chimney.
"The string," he cried.
"You have a letter."
"Yes; have you a light?"
"Yes."
"Lower the string."
Gaston tied on the letter, which was drawn up.
"It is for you and not for me," said Dumesnil.
"Never mind, read it, and tell me what it is; I have no light, and it would lose time to send me one."