CHAPTER LIII.

LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS.

The disappointment which fell upon Monsieur Jacques was terrible. Still, actuated by a despairing thought that God, in his mercy, would open some way to the truth, he went vigorously to work with a heavy sledge, and drove the staples back into the granite wall with a force that echoed through those vaulted passages like the roar of a wild beast. When this ponderous work was done, he turned upon his companion, and, with a faltering voice, asked if that was enough.

Christopher hesitated, and answered,

“Follow me, and remember, not a word must be spoken to any prisoner. The man who breaks this rule will stand a fair chance of occupying a cell himself. Am I understood?”

Monsieur Jacques took up his tools, muttering that he had nothing to say, and had no wish to talk with any prisoner, but to get out of that unwholesome place as soon as possible.

While he was speaking, Christopher turned into a passage he recognized, and Jacques scarcely drew his breath till they came opposite the very door which had so painfully fastened itself on his memory. There the keeper paused, and set down his lantern.

“It is seldom we permit any workman to enter a cell in which prisoners are—but this door cannot be opened. It is some days since we have been able to get food or water through, and we must reach him now, or he will starve to death.”

Jacques sat down his tools and tried the lock with his hands, but they shook violently, and fell away red with wet rust.

“The bolt has got twisted, no doubt,” said Christopher. “The whole lock must be taken apart, and the hinges fastened. Pah! that was a lizard creeping across my ankle, and here drops a spider into my very hair. It makes the flesh creep on my bones. Come, come, my friend, have done sorting your tools, this is not a pleasant place to linger in. The light is burning blue already. Oh! there it goes! that was a powerful wrench! Pry away! pry away! force the staple! Hercules! what powerful arms! How the door trembles—open at last. Ah! our friend has fainted, so much the better.”

Christopher entered the cell first, and stooping lifted a truss of straw, which he flung over the deathly face of a man who lay in the furthest corner. Then he placed himself directly between the prostrate form and Jacques, who was examining the door. Without appearing to observe these movements, he went on with his work, and seemed to be laboring with great zeal, but made so little progress that Christopher became impatient.

“Why, man, at this rate we shall not get away from here in an hour,” he said, casting impatient glances around the dungeon.

“An hour! Why if I get through all that is to be done here in three hours, it will be better than I expect.”

“Then, by our Lady! you will not spend them here! Come out into the passage, and mend the lock there. I see little chance that this poor fellow will be disturbed by the noise; but, in common charity, be quick, or he may die on our hands.”

Monsieur Jacques had hoped to weary the man out by naming so many hours; but failing in this, he answered that it was impossible to remain all the time outside the door, he must go in and out while repairing it; but, for the prisoner’s sake, he would lose no time.

“Well, see that you don’t,” answered Christopher, setting his lantern on the floor. “I wouldn’t spend three hours in this place to save the Bastille from destruction.”

The seeming locksmith muttered that it was equally disagreeable to him, and went on with his work; but his eyes were now and then turned upon the lantern, and Christopher might have seen that the hand which was turning a screw in one of the hinges worked unsteadily. After an interval of some ten minutes, he swung the door back, as if to try the hinge; it struck the lantern, overturned it, and the next instant they were in profound darkness.

An oath broke from the keeper, and he began to grope for the lantern; but Jacques had been before him, the lantern was in his hand, the door open, and he was about to grasp the candle, when a sudden jerk sent it flying into the darkness.

“What is to be done?” questioned Jacques, rising from his knees. “How are we to get a light?”

“Confound your awkwardness!” answered the keeper, fumbling about for the lantern. “The door is broken open and the candle gone. This is an awful fix. You may thank your stars that the only man in the Bastille who can thread its passages by night, is in this infernal place with you.”

“Thank heaven it is only an inconvenience!” said the locksmith.

“If to sit here from fifteen minutes to half an hour in the dark, breathing this pestilential air is only an inconvenience, you may, perhaps, be grateful. For my part, I have no fancy for groping my way through the black labyrinth of passages that lie between us and the guardrooms; and you can tell your master, from me, that when we want work done again in the Bastille, he must come himself. We want no more bunglers.”

“I beg ten thousand pardons—it was an accident!”

“We do not permit of accidents here!” answered the man, by no means appeased by the humility with which the workman strove to atone for his fault. “For ten thousand francs I would not grope my way through the places that lead to this, with those slimy things creeping around one. Pah! It is bad enough when a light is there to frighten them away; but now, curses on your blundering! if I come back without a battle with the rats, it is more than I expect.”

Monsieur Jacques knew by the keeper’s voice that he was outside of the cell. He could hear the lantern rattling against the stones of the wall as he staggered forward in the darkness; but he did not hear the muttered words which followed.

“Confound the fool! he is safe enough from any chance of mischief. The prisoner hasn’t got the strength to speak; and as for seeing his face, let him try. One might as well look through sheet-lead as that darkness. Steady! Steady! How close the walls are together! How plainly you can hear the waters of the moat licking the stones. Heaven have mercy! Help! Help!”

Christopher’s foot had slipped on the wet slabs of the floor; he caught at the wall but his hand had no power to clutch the dripping stones, and he went down with a crash, which reached the locksmith, who sat in the darkness, listening keenly. After a little Jacques heard a volley of muttered curses, and slow footsteps, picking their way through the distance. Then all was still, save the horrible lapping of waters against the walls, and the hard breathing of his fellow-prisoner, who seemed to stir faintly in the straw. For a half minute Jacques held his breath, and listened for those footsteps, or that voice to renew themselves. Then he reached cautiously forward and began to feel for something in his tool-case. A moment of stillness followed, then the sharp click of steel striking flint, and a few sparks of fire ignited on the dungeon floor. Quick as thought the man sprung to his feet, snatched a wisp of straw, and held it close to the sparks, blowing them with all the slow strength of his lungs into a tiny flame.

The sparks flashed upward, the straw blazed, and for one instant the whole dungeon was illuminated. Jacques caught one glance at a deadly white face, with the eyes wide open, looking at him. He had no time for recognition, but was searching for the candle. It lay at his feet, and had been trodden upon. What of that? A wick was there, and tallow enough to last a minute—he asked no more. He began to tremble, for the wick had gathered moisture from the floor, and refused to ignite.

“Great God! stand by me this one minute!” he exclaimed, passionately, forcing his hand to hold the burning straw with steadiness. He had given the straw a twist, and it kept fire. The spluttering wick broke into an uncertain flame, trembled, half went out, and rose to a clear light.

“Thank God!”

Jacques went close to the prisoner with these words on his lips. He held the light down to that white face. The wild glitter of those eyes frightened him.

“Speak to me! If you remember a name, tell it before any one comes. Speak! For God’s sake, speak! Are you Dr. Gosner?”

The prisoner began to tremble violently; his thin hands clasped themselves; every feature in his face quivered, and from his white lips dropped these faltering words;

“That was my name when I had one.”

Jacques blew out the candle, and flung it into the darkness.