Within an Inch of His Life by Emile Gaboriau (latest novels to read txt) 📕

“Well?”

“I swear to you by the sacred memory of my mother, I will be in a convent to-morrow, and you will never see me again in your life, not even if I should die, which would certainly soon”—

M. de Chandore, raising his hands to heaven, and with an accent of genuine despair, exclaimed,—

“Ah, my God! Are these our children? And is this what is in store for us old people? We have spent a lifetime in watching over them; we have submissively gratified all their fancies; they have been our greatest anxiety, and our sweetest hope; we have given them our life day by day, and we would not hesitate to give them our life’s blood drop by drop; they are every thing to us, and we imagine they love us—poor fools that we are! One fine day, a man goes by, a careless, thoughtless man, with a bright eye and a ready tongue, and it is all over. Our child is no longer our own; our child no longer knows us. Go, old man, and die in your corner.”

Overwhelmed by his grief, the old man staggered and sank into a chair, as an old oak, cut by the woodman’s axe, trembles and falls.

“Ah, this is fearful!” murmured Dionysia. “What you say, grandpapa, is too fearful. How can you doubt me?”

She had knelt down. She was weeping; and her hot tears fell upon the old gentleman’s hands. He started up as he felt them on his icy-cold hand; and, making one more effort, he said,—

“Poor, poor child! And suppose Jacques is guilty, and, when he sees you, confesses his crime, what then?”

Dionysia shook her head.

“That is impossible,” she said; “and still, even if it were so, I ought to be punished as much as he is; for I know, if he had asked me, I should have acted in concert with him.”

“She is mad!” exclaimed M. de Chandore, falling back into his chair. “She is mad!”

But he was overcome; and the next day, at five in the afternoon, his heart torn by unspeakable grief, he went down the steep street with his daughter on his arm. Dionysia had chosen her simplest and plainest dress; and the little bag she carried on her arm contained not sixteen but twenty thousand francs. As a matter of course, it had been necessary to take the marchioness into their confidence; but neither she, nor the Misses Lavarande, nor M. Folgat, had raised an objection. Down to the prison, grandfather and grandchild had not exchanged a word; but, when they reached it, Dionysia said,—

“I see Mrs. Blangin at the door: let us be careful.”

They came nearer. Mrs. Blangin saluted them.

“Come, it is time,” said the young girl. “Till to-morrow, dear papa! Go home quickly, and be not troubled about me.”

Then joining the keeper’s wife, she disappeared inside the prison.

X.

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