Monsieur Lecoq by Émile Gaboriau (romance novel chinese novels .txt) 📕

“I suppose,” he continued, “the baron has been separated from the other prisoners?”

“Yes, he is alone, in a large and very comfortable room.”

“Where is it?”

“On the second story of the corner tower.”

But Martial, who was not so well acquainted with the citadel as his father, was obliged to reflect a moment.

“The corner tower!” said he; “is not that the tall tower which one sees from a distance, and which is built on a spot where the rock is almost perpendicular?”

“Precisely.”

By the promptness M. de Sairmeuse displayed in replying, it was easy to see that he was ready to risk a good deal to effect the prisoner’s deliverance.

“What kind of a window is that in the baron’s room?” inquired Martial.

“It is quite large and furnished with a double row of iron bars, securely fastened into the stone walls.”

“It is easy enough to cut these bars. On which side does this window look?”

“On the country.”

“That is to say, it overlooks the precipice. The devil! That is a serious difficulty, and yet, in one respect, it is an advantage, for they station no sentinels there, do they?”

“Never. Between the citadel wall and the edge of the precipice there is barely standing-room. The soldiers do not venture there even in the daytime.”

“There is one more important question. What is the distance from Monsieur d’Escorval’s window to the ground?”

“It is about forty feet from the base of the tower.”

“Good! And from the base of the tower to the foot of the precipice⁠—how far is that?”

“Really, I scarcely know. Sixty feet, at least, I should think.”

“Ah, that is high, terribly high. The baron fortunately is still agile and vigorous.” The duke began to be impatient.

“Now,” said he to his son, “will you be so kind as to explain your plan?”

Martial had gradually resumed the careless tone which always exasperated his father.

“He is sure of success,” thought Marie-Anne.

“My plan is simplicity itself,” replied Martial. “Sixty and forty are one hundred. It is necessary to procure one hundred feet of strong rope. It will make a very large bundle; but no matter. I will twist it around me, envelop myself in a large cloak, and accompany you to the citadel. You will send for Corporal Bavois; you will leave me alone with him in a quiet place; I will explain our wishes.”

M. de Sairmeuse shrugged his shoulders.

“And how will you procure a hundred feet of rope at this hour in Montaignac? Will you go about from shop to shop? You might as well trumpet your project at once.”

“I shall attempt nothing of the kind. What I cannot do the friends of the Escorval family will do.”

The duke was about to offer some new objection when his son interrupted him.

“Pray do not forget the danger that threatens us,” he said, earnestly, “nor the little time that is left us. I have committed a fault, leave me to repair it.”

And turning to Marie-Anne:

“You may consider the baron saved,” he pursued; “but it is necessary for me to confer with one of his friends. Return at once to the Hotel de France and tell the curé to meet me on the Place d’Armes, where I go to await him.”

Though among the first to be arrested at the time of the panic before Montaignac, the Baron d’Escorval had not for an instant deluded himself with false hopes.

“I am a lost man,” he thought. And confronting death calmly, he now thought only of the danger that threatened his son.

His mistake before the judges was the result of his preoccupation.

He did not breathe freely until he saw Maurice led from the hall by Abbé Midon and the friendly officers, for he knew that his son would try to confess connection with the affair.

Then, calm and composed, with head erect, and steadfast eye, he listened to the death-sentence.

In the confusion that ensued in removing the prisoners from the hall, the baron found himself beside Chanlouineau, who had begun his noisy lamentations.

“Courage, my boy,” he said, indignant at such apparent cowardice.

“Ah! it is easy to talk,” whined the young farmer.

Then seeing that no one was observing them, he leaned toward the baron, and whispered:

“It is for you I am working. Save all your strength for tonight.”

Chanlouineau’s words and burning glance surprised M. d’Escorval, but he attributed both to fear. When the guards took him back to his cell, he threw himself upon his pallet, and before him rose that vision of the last hour, which is at once the hope and despair of those who are about to die.

He knew the terrible laws that govern a court-martial. The next day⁠—in a few hours⁠—at dawn, perhaps, they would take him from his cell, place him in front of a squad of soldiers, an officer would lift his sword, and all would be over.

Then what was to become of his wife and his son?

His agony on thinking of these dear ones was terrible. He was alone; he wept.

But suddenly he started up, ashamed of his weakness. He must not allow these thoughts to unnerve him. He was determined to meet death unflinchingly. Resolved to shake off the profound melancholy that was creeping over him, he walked about his cell, forcing his mind to occupy itself with material objects.

The room which had been allotted to him was very large. It had once communicated with the apartment adjoining; but the door had been walled up for a long time. The cement which held the large blocks of stone together had crumbled away, leaving crevices through which one might look from one room into the other.

M. d’Escorval mechanically applied his eye to one of these interstices. Perhaps he had a friend for a neighbor, some wretched man who was to share his fate. He saw no one. He called, first in a whisper, then louder. No voice responded to his.

“If I could only tear down this thin partition,” he thought.

He trembled, then shrugged his shoulders. And if he did, what then? He