"Oh, no! but he has taken it. In other words, he has escaped from prison with two other prisoners. Bless my soul! my son, what a fellow that Dufresne is! He is a solid rascal, I tell you, and not soft like you. I will bet that he would set the prison on fire rather than stay there.

When a man is like that, he don't lack friends. Dufresne found acquaintances there; he has escaped, and he has done well; for they say that he is certain to be sentenced to death."

"To death! Why, what has he done?"

"What has he done? Well, well! that's a good one, that is. Have you just come out of a rat-hole? Do you mean to say that you don't know why they pinched him?"

"I thought it was on account of that miserable note,--for the same reason that they took us."

"Oh, no! it's something better than that. But I do remember now, that fright acted on you like wine; you didn't know what was going on. Let me tell you that Dufresne is accused of poisoning a certain Madame Dolban, with whom he used to live."

"Great G.o.d! the monster!"

"It seems that his case is serious; he will be sentenced to death in default; but you understand that he won't return to these diggings, to be caught. We shan't see him again; I am sorry for that, for he is a smart fellow; it's a pity that he went too far."

"And we?"

"We are to be transferred to the Conciergerie before long, to be tried.

That's the place, my man, where you will need firmness and eloquence. If you weep there as you do here, it's all over; we shall take a sea voyage in the service of the government."

"You villain! is it possible?"

"Hush, they're listening to us; enough said."

While the wretched Edouard was in the throes of all the anguish of terror and remorse, and, surrounded by vile criminals who plumed themselves upon their crimes and their depravity, found himself the object of their contempt, so that not one of them addressed a word of compa.s.sion to him or deigned to sympathize with his sufferings, Adeline pa.s.sed peaceful days at Guillot's farm. She watched the growth of her daughter, who was already beginning to lisp a few words which only a mother could understand. Jacques, still overflowing with zeal and courage, insisted upon doing the hardest work; he did more than two farm hands, and to him toil was a pleasure. At night he returned to Adeline; he took his little niece on his knees, and danced her up and down to the refrain of a military ballad. Everybody loved Brother Jacques; for that is what he was called in the village after he was known to be Madame Murville's brother-in-law; and the peasants were proud to have under their humble roof a woman like Adeline, and a fine fellow like Jacques.

But that peaceful life could not endure; a certain trip of Sans-Souci's to Paris was destined to cause a great change. Jacques's excellent comrade set out one day for the great city, intrusted as usual with secret commissions from Adeline and her brother-in-law, both of whom, although without communicating with each other, had the same thought, the same desire, and burned to know what Edouard was doing.

Hitherto Sans-Souci had been unable to obtain any information, but an unlucky chance led this time to his meeting a friend whom he had not seen for a very long time. This friend, after practising divers trades, had become a messenger at the Conciergerie. He was employed by those prisoners who were still allowed to communicate with the outside world.

Sans-Souci mentioned the name of Edouard Murville; his friend informed him that he was in the prison, and that his sentence was to be p.r.o.nounced on the following day.

"In prison!" cried Sans-Souci; "my brave comrade's brother! Ten thousand cartridges! this will be a sad blow to Jacques."

The messenger, seeing that Sans-Souci was deeply interested in Edouard, regretted having said so much.

"But why is he in prison?" asked Sans-Souci anxiously; "what has he done? Speak! tell me. Is it for debt?"

"Yes, yes; I believe it's about a note," replied the messenger, hesitating, and resolved not to disclose the truth; and he tried, but in vain, to change the subject.

"Morbleu! his brother--her husband--in prison! Poor little woman! Poor fellow!"

"Don't say anything about it to them, my friend, don't mention it to them. I am sorry myself that I told you this distressing news."

"You are right, I will hold my tongue, I won't say anything. After all, they can't help it. That Edouard is a bad fellow! So much the worse for him."

"Oh, yes! he is a very bad fellow, and they will do well to forget him."

"Yes, of course, we can think that, we fellows; but a wife, a brother, they have hearts, you see, and when it's a question of someone you love, the heart always drives you on.--Good-bye, old man; I am going back to the farm, very sorry that I met you, although it isn't your fault. My heart is heavy, and the trouble is that I am too stupid to make-believe."

Sans-Souci left his friend and returned to the farm. Adeline and Jacques questioned him according to their custom, and Sans-Souci replied that he knew no more than at other times; but in vain did he try to dissemble; his sadness betrayed him; his embarra.s.sment, when Adeline spoke to him of Edouard, aroused her suspicions; a woman easily divines our secret thoughts. Edouard's wife, convinced that Sans-Souci was concealing from her something unpleasant about her husband, was constantly at his heels; she urged him, she implored him to tell her all.

For two days the honest soldier's courage held good against Adeline's prayers. But he reflected upon the plight of Edouard, whom he believed to be in prison for debt; he thought that his wife might have acquaintances in Paris, through whom she could probably alleviate Edouard's situation. Edouard had been guilty; but perhaps misfortune would have matured his character. And it was not right to deprive him of help and encouragement. These reflections caused Sans-Souci to decide to conceal no longer from Adeline what he knew. The opportunity soon presented itself; the next day the young woman entreated him again to tell her what her husband was doing; Sans-Souci surrendered, on condition that she would not mention it to Jacques, by whom he feared to be scolded. Adeline promised, and then he told her all that he had learned in Paris.

As soon as Adeline heard that her husband was in prison, she made up her mind what course to pursue; she left Sans-Souci, went to her chamber, collected a few jewels, the last remnant of her past fortune, made a little bundle of her clothes, and after writing on a sheet of paper that they must not be disturbed by her absence, she took her little Ermance in her arms and secretly left the farm house, resolved to leave no stone unturned to obtain her husband's freedom, or to share his captivity.

It was then nine o'clock in the morning; Jacques was in the fields, and the peasants were occupied in different directions. Adeline was on the Paris road before the people at the farm had discovered her departure.

XXIX

THE PLACE DU PALAIS

Adeline did not know as yet what method she should employ to obtain access to her husband; she had formed no plan; she had no idea what steps she must take in order to speak with a prisoner; a single thought filled her mind: her Edouard was unhappy, he was languishing in prison, deprived of all consolation. For Adeline knew the world, she had shrewd suspicions that those people who crowded about Edouard in his prosperity would have abandoned him in his distress. Who then would wipe away the poor prisoner's tears, if not his wife and his daughter? To be sure, he had cast them aside; he had formerly avoided their caresses. But when the man we love is crushed beneath the weight of misfortune, a generous soul never remembers his wrongdoing.

Sans-Souci had mentioned the Conciergerie; so it was to the Conciergerie she must go. Adeline believed that her prayers, her tears, and the sight of her child, would move the jailers; she had no doubt that they would allow her to see her husband. That hope redoubled her courage. After walking to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, carrying little Ermance, who was not yet a year-and-a-half old, Adeline at last fell in with one of those wretched carriages which take Parisians into the suburbs, and to the open-air festivals. For a modest sum the driver agreed to take the young woman and her child, and headed his nags toward Paris.

There was a single other traveller in the carriage with Adeline; it was an old man of about seventy years, but with a pleasant face, and an open, kindly expression which inspired confidence and respect. His dress indicated wealth without ostentation, and his manners, while they were not those of fashionable society, denoted familiarity with good company.

Adeline bowed to her travelling companion and seated herself beside him, without speaking.

The old gentleman scrutinized her at first with attention, then with interest. Adeline had such a n.o.ble and appealing countenance that it was impossible to look upon her without being prepossessed in her favor, and without desiring to know her better.

Little Ermance was on her mother's knees; her childish graces fascinated the old man, who gave her bonbons and bestowed some caresses upon her.

Adeline thanked the old gentleman for his kindness, smiled at her daughter, then relapsed into her reflections.

The traveller tried to engage the young woman in conversation; but her replies were so short, she seemed so preoccupied, that her companion feared to intrude. He said no more, but he noticed Adeline's melancholy, he heard her sighs, and he saw that her lovely eyes were constantly turned toward Paris, and often wet with tears. He dared not try to divert her thoughts from her trouble, but he pitied her in silence.

Adeline found the journey very long; the wretched horses went at their ordinary pace, nothing on earth could have induced them to gallop.

Sometimes, Adeline, giving way to her impatience, was on the point of alighting from the vehicle, in the hope that she would reach Paris sooner on foot. But she would have to carry little Ermance, and her strength was not equal to her courage. So she remained in the carriage and reflected that each turn of the wheels brought her nearer to her husband.

The old gentleman looked at his watch, and at that Adeline addressed him:

"Monsieur, would you kindly tell me what time it is?"

"Almost one o'clock, madame."

"Are we still far from Paris?"

"Why, no, only a short league; in three-quarters of an hour you will be there."

"In three-quarters of an hour! Oh! how slowly the time goes!"

"I see that madame has some important business calling her to Paris?"

"Yes, monsieur, oh, yes! I long to be there!"