Volume 11 — Volume XI. (continued 4)

When Benvenuto entered, Montmorency was, as usual, striding back and forth in his apartment. He nodded in response to the goldsmith's salutation; then paused in his walk, and, fixing his piercing gaze upon him, inquired,—

"Who are you?"

"Benvenuto Cellini."

"Your profession?

"Goldsmith to the king," replied the artist, wondering to find that his first reply did not make the second question unnecessary.

"Ah! yes, yes," growled the constable. "I recognize you. Well, what do you want, what have you to ask, my friend? That I give you an order? If you have counted on that, your time is thrown away, I give you warning. Upon my word, I have no patience with this mania for art which is raging so everywhere to-day. One would say it was an epidemic that has attacked every one except myself. No, sculpture doesn't interest me in the very least, Master Goldsmith, do you hear? So apply to others, and good night."

Benvenuto made a gesture, but before he could speak, the constable continued:—

"Mon Dieu! don't let that discourage you. You will find plenty of courtiers who like to ape the king, and noodles who pose as connoisseurs. As for me, hark ye? I stick to my trade, which is to wage war, and I tell you frankly that I much prefer a good, healthy peasant-woman, who gives me a child, that is to say, a soldier, every ten months, than a wretched sculptor, who wastes his time turning out a crowd of men of bronze who are good for nothing but to raise the price of cannon."

"Monseigneur," said Benvenuto, who had listened to this long heretical harangue with a degree of patience which amazed himself, "I am not here to speak upon artistic subjects, but upon a matter of honor."

"Ah! that's a different matter. What do you desire of me? Tell me quickly."

"Do you remember, monseigneur, that his Majesty once said to me in your presence that, on the day when I should bring him the statue of Jupiter cast in bronze, he would grant whatever favor I might ask, and that he bade you, monseigneur, and Chancelier Poyet remind him of his promise in the event of his forgetting it?"

"I remember. What then?"

"The moment is at hand, monseigneur, when I shall implore you to provide a memory for the king. Will you do it?"

"Is that what you come here to ask me, monsieur?" cried the constable; "have you intruded upon me to beg me to do something I am bound to do?"

"Monseigneur!"

"You're an impertinent fellow, Master Goldsmith. Understand that the Connétable Anne de Montmorency does not need to be reminded to be an honorable man. The king bade me remember for him, and that is a precaution he might well take more frequently, with all due respect; I shall do as he bade me, even though the reminder be annoying to him. Adieu, Master Cellini, and make room for others."

With that the constable turned his back on Benvenuto, and gave the signal for another petitioner to be introduced.

Benvenuto saluted the constable, whose somewhat brutal frankness was not displeasing to him, and took his leave. Still agitated, and impelled by the same feverish excitement and the same burning thoughts, he betook himself to the abode of Chancelier Poyet, near Porte Saint-Antoine, only a short distance away.

Chancelier Poyet formed a most striking and complete contrast, moral and physical, to Anne de Montmorency, who was always crabbed and always incased in armor from head to foot. He was polished, shrewd, crafty, buried in his furs, lost, so to speak, in the ermine. Naught could be seen of him save a bald head surrounded by a grizzly fringe of hair, intelligent, restless eyes, thin lips, and a white hand. He was quite as honest perhaps as the constable, but much less outspoken.

There again Benvenuto was forced to wait for half an hour. But his friends would not have recognized him; he had accustomed himself to waiting.

"Monseigneur," he said, when he was at last ushered into the chancellor's presence, "I have come to remind you of a promise the king made me in your presence, and constituted you not only the witness thereof but the guarantor."

"I know what you refer to, Messire Benvenuto," said Poyet, "and I am ready, if you wish, to bring his Majesty's promise to his mind; but it is my duty to inform you that, from a legal standpoint, you have no claim upon him, for an undertaking indefinite in form, and left to your discretion, cannot be enforced before the courts, and never affords a cause of action; wherefore, if the king satisfies your demand, he will do so purely as a matter of generosity and good faith."

"That is as I understand it, monseigneur," said Benvenuto, "and I simply have to request you when the occasion arises to fulfil the duty his Majesty intrusted to you, leaving the rest to his good will."

"Very well," said Poyet, "I am at your service, my dear monsieur, to that extent."

Benvenuto thereupon took his leave of the chancellor, with his mind more at ease, but his blood was still boiling, and his hands were trembling with fever. His thoughts, excited by the annoyance and irritation and insults to which he had been subjected, burst forth at last in full freedom, after their long restraint. Space and time no longer existed for the mind which they overflowed, and as Benvenuto strode along toward his home he saw in a sort of luminous dream Del Moro's house, Stefana, the Castle of San Angelo, and Colombe's garden. At the same time, he felt that his strength became more than human, and he seemed to be living in another world.

He was still laboring under this intense exaltation of feeling when he entered the Hôtel de Nesle. All the apprentices were awaiting his return, in accordance with his commands.

"How for the casting of the Jupiter, my children!" he cried from the doorway, and darted into the studio.

"Good morning, master," said Jacques Aubry, who had come in behind Cellini, singing joyously as his wont was. "You neither saw nor heard me, did you? For five minutes I have been following you along the quay, calling you; you walked so fast that I am quite out of breath. In God's name, what's the matter with you all? You are as sober as judges."

"To the casting!" continued Benvenuto, without answering Aubry, although he had seen him out of the corner of his eye, and listened to him with one ear. "To the casting! Everything depends upon that. Merciful God, shall we be successful? Ah! my friend," he continued, abruptly, addressing Aubry,—"ah, my dear Jacques, what sad news awaited me on my return, and what a cruel advantage they took of my absence!"

"What is the matter, master?" cried Aubry, really disturbed by Cellini's excitement and the dejection of the apprentices.

"Above all things, boys, throw in plenty of dry spruce. You know that I have been laying in a stock of it for six months. The matter, my good Jacques, is that Ascanio is under lock and key at the Châtelet; and that Colombe, the provost's daughter, that lovely girl whom Ascanio loves, as you know, is in the hands of the Duchesse d'Etampes, her enemy: they found her in the statue of Mars where I had hidden her. But we will rescue them. Well, well, where are you going, Hermann? the wood's in the yard, not in the cellar."

"Ascanio arrested!" cried Aubry; "Colombe carried off!"

"Yes, yes, some villanous spy must have watched them, poor children, and surprised a secret which I had kept even from you, dear Jacques. But if I discover the knave!—To the casting, boys, to the casting!—That isn't all. The king refuses to see me, whom he called his friend. So much for the friendship of men: to be sure kings are not men, but kings. The result was that I went to the Louvre to no purpose; I could not get speech of him. Ah! but my statue shall speak for me. Prepare the mould, my friends, and let us not lose a moment. That woman insulting poor Colombe! that infamous provost jeering at me! that jailer torturing Ascanio! Oh, I have had some fearful visions to-day, dear Jacques! I would give ten years of my life to the man who could gain admission to the prisoner, speak to him, and learn the secret by means of which I may subdue that arrogant duchess: for Ascanio knows a secret which possesses that power, Jacques, and refused to divulge it to me, noble heart! But no matter: have no fear for thy child, Stefana; I will defend him to my latest breath, and I will save him! Yes, I will save him! Ah! where is the vile traitor who betrayed us, that I may strangle him with my own hands! Let me live but three days, Stefana, for it seems to me that the fire which consumes me is burning my life away. Oh if I should die before my Jupiter is finished! To the casting, children! to the casting!"

At Benvenuto's first words Jacques Aubry became pale as death, for he suspected that he was the cause of it all. As the master proceeded, his suspicion was changed to certainty. Thereupon some plan doubtless suggested itself to him, for he stole silently away while Cellini hurried away to the foundry, followed by his workmen, and shouting like a madman,—

"To the casting, children! to the casting!"

XII OF THE DIFFICULTY WHICH AN HONEST MAN EXPERIENCES IN PROCURING HIS OWN COMMITTAL TO PRISON

Poor Jacques Aubry was in a frame of mind bordering on despair when he left the Grand-Nesle; there could be no doubt that it was he who, involuntarily to be sure, had betrayed Ascanio's secret. But who was the man who had betrayed him? Surely not that gallant nobleman whose name he did not know: ah, no! he was a gentleman. It must have been that knave of a Henriot, unless it was Robin, or Chariot, or Guillaume. To tell the truth, poor Aubry rather lost himself in his conjectures; for the fact was that he had intrusted the secret to a dozen or more intimate friends, among whom it was no easy matter to find the culprit. But no matter! the first, the real traitor was himself, Jacques Aubry,—the infamous spy so roundly denounced by Benvenuto was himself. Instead of locking away in his heart his friend's secret which he had surprised, he had spread it broadcast in a score of places, and had brought disaster upon his brother Ascanio with his infernal tongue. Jacques tore his hair; Jacques beat himself with his fists; Jacques heaped mortal insults upon himself, and could find no invectives sufficiently bitter to qualify his conduct as it deserved.

His remorse became so keen, and threw him into such a state of exasperation with himself, that, for the first time in his life perhaps, Jacques Aubry indulged in reflection. After all, when his head should be bald, his chest black and blue, and his conscience torn to rags, Ascanio would be no nearer freedom. At any cost, he must repair the evil he had done, instead of wasting his time in despairing.

Honest Jacques had retained these words of Benvenuto: "I would give ten years of my life to the man who would gain admission to the prisoner, speak to him, and learn the secret by means of which I may subdue that arrogant duchess." And, as we have said, he began to reflect, contrary to his wont. The result of his reflections was that he must gain admission to the Châtelet. Once there, he would find a way to reach Ascanio.

But Benvenuto had sought in vain to gain admission as a visitor; and surely Jacques Aubry could never be so audacious as to think of attempting a thing in which the master had failed. However, although it might be impossible to effect an entrance as a visitor, it certainly should be much easier, at least so the student thought, to be admitted as a prisoner. He determined, therefore, to enter the Châtelet in that character; then, when he had seen Ascanio, and Ascanio had told him all, so that he had no further business at the Châtelet, he would take his leave, rich in the possession of the precious secret, and would go to Benvenuto, not to demand the ten years of his life that he offered, but to confess his crime, and implore forgiveness.

Delighted with the fecundity of his imagination, and proud of his unexampled devotion, he bent his steps toward the Châtelet.

"Let us see," he ruminated, as he walked with deliberate step toward the prison where all his hopes were centred,—"let us see, in order to avoid any more idiotic mistakes, how matters stand,—no easy task, considering that the whole business seems to me as tangled as Gervaise's skein when she gives it to me to hold, and I try to kiss her. Let's begin at the beginning. Ascanio loved Colombe, the provost's daughter: so far, so good. As the provost proposed to marry her to Comte d'Orbec, Ascanio carried her off: very good. Not knowing what to do with the sweet child when he had abducted her, he hid her in the head of the statue of Mars: best of all. Faith, it was a wonderfully ingenious hiding place, and nothing less than a beast—but let us pass over that: I shall find myself again later. Thereupon it would seem that the provost, acting upon my information, got his daughter into his clutches once more, and imprisoned Ascanio. Triple brute that I am! But here is where the skein begins to be tangled. What interest has the Duchesse d'Etampes in all this? She detests Colombe, whom everybody else loves. Why? Ah! I know. I remember certain jocose remarks of the apprentices, Ascanio's embarrassment when the duchess was mentioned,—Madame d'Etampes has her eye on Ascanio, and naturally abominates her rival. Jacques, my friend, you are a miserable wretch, but you are a clever dog all the same. Ah, yes! but now how does it happen that Ascanio has in his hands the means of ruining the duchess? Why does the king appear at intervals in the affair, with one Stefana? Why did Benvenuto constantly invoke Jupiter, rather a heathenish invocation for a Catholic? Deuce take me if I can see through all that. But it isn't absolutely necessary that I should understand. Light is to be found in Ascanio's cell; therefore the most essential thing is to get myself cast into the cell with him. I will manage the rest afterward."

As he thus communed with himself he reached his destination, and struck a violent blow upon the great door of the Châtelet. The wicket opened, and a harsh voice demanded to know his business: it was the jailer's.

"I wish for a cell in your prison," replied Aubry in a hollow voice.

"A cell!" exclaimed the astonished jailer.

"Yes, a cell: the blackest and deepest; even that will be better than I deserve."

"Why so?"

"Because I am a great criminal."

"What crime have you committed?"

"Ah! indeed, what crime have I committed?" Jacques asked himself, for he had not thought of preparing a crime suited to the occasion. As a fertile, lively imagination was not his most prominent characteristic, notwithstanding the compliments he had addressed to himself just before, he repeated, stupidly,—

"What crime?"

"Yes, what crime?"

"Guess," said Jacques. "This fellow ought to know more about crimes than I do," he added to himself, "so I will let him give me a list, and then make my selection."

"Have you murdered anybody?" asked the jailer.

"Great God! what do you take me for, my friend?" cried the student, whose conscience rose in revolt at the thought of being taken for a murderer.

"Have you stolen anything?" continued the jailer.

"Stolen? the idea!"

"What in Heaven's name have you done then?" cried the jailer testily. "To give yourself up as a criminal isn't all that is necessary: you must say what crime you've committed."

"But I tell you that I'm a villain, a vile wretch, and that I deserve the wheel or the gallows!"

"The crime? the crime?" the jailer repeated.

"The crime? Well! I have betrayed my friend."

"That's no crime," said the jailer. "Good night." And he closed the wicket.

"That's not a crime, you say? that's not a crime? What is it then, pray?"

And Jacques grasped the knocker with both hands, and knocked with all his strength.

"What's the matter? what's the matter?" said a different voice from within the Châtelet.

"It's a madman, who wants to be admitted into the prison," replied the jailer.

"If he's a madman, his place is not at the Châtelet, but at the asylum."

"At the asylum!" cried Aubry, scampering away as fast as his legs would carry him, "at the asylum! Peste! that's not what I want. I want to get into the Châtelet, not the asylum! Besides, paupers and beggars are sent to the asylum, and not people who have twenty Paris sous in their pocket as I have. The asylum! Why, that wretched jailer claims that to betray one's friend is no crime! So it seems that, in order to have the honor of being committed to prison one must have murdered or stolen. But now I think of it,—why might I not have led some young girl astray? There's nothing dishonorable about that. Very good, but what girl? Gervaise?"

Despite his preoccupation, the student roared with laughter.

"But, after all," he said, "though it isn't so, it might have been. Good! good! I have discovered my crime: I seduced Gervaise!"

On the instant he set off for the young working-girl's home, ran up the sixty stairs which led to her lodgings, and burst into the room where the lovely grisette in a coquettish négligé was ironing her linen.

"Ah!" exclaimed Gervaise, with a fascinating little shriek; "ah! monsieur, you frightened me!"

"Gervaise, my dear Gervaise," cried Aubry, rushing toward her with open arms: "you must save my life, my child."

"One moment, one moment," said Gervaise, using the hot flat-iron as a shield; "what do you want, master gadabout? for three days I haven't seen you."

"I have done wrong, Gervaise, I am an unfortunate wretch. But a sure proof that I love you is that I run to you in my distress. I repeat it, Gervaise, you must save my life."

"Yes. I understand, you have been getting tipsy in some wine shop, and have had a dispute with some one. The archers are after you to put you in prison, and you come to poor Gervaise to give you shelter. Go to prison, monsieur, go to prison, and leave me in peace."

"That is just what I ask and all I ask, my little Gervaise,—to go to prison. But the villains refuse to commit me."

"O mon Dieu! Jacques," said the young woman compassionately, "have you gone mad?"

"There you are! they say that I am mad, and propose to send me to the asylum, while the Châtelet is where I want to go."

"You want to go to the Châtelet? What for, Aubry? The Châtelet's a frightful prison; they say that when one gets in there, it's impossible to say when one will come out."

"I must get in there, however, I must!" cried the student. "There is no other way to save him."

"To save whom?"

"Ascanio."

"Ascanio? what, that handsome young fellow, your Benvenuto's pupil?"

"Himself, Gervaise. He is in the Châtelet, and he's there by my fault."

"Great God!"

"So that I must join him there," said Jacques, "and save him."

"Why is he in the Châtelet?"

"Because he loved the provost's daughter, and seduced her."

"Poor boy! Why, do they imprison men for that?"

"Yes, Gervaise. How you see it was like this: he had her in hiding. I discovered the hiding place, and, like an idiot, like an infamous villain, I told the whole story to everybody."

"Except me!" cried Gervaise. "That was just like you!"

"Didn't I tell it to you, Gervaise?"

"You didn't mention it. You're a great babbler with others, but not with me. When you come here it's to kiss me, to drink, or to sleep,—never to talk. Understand, monsieur, that a woman loves to talk."

"Well, what are we doing at this moment, my little Gervaise?" said Jacques. "We are talking, I should say."

"Yes, because you need me."

"It is true that you could do me a great service."

"What is it?"

"You could say that I seduced you."

"Why, of course you seduced me, you wretch."

"I!" cried Jacques in amazement. "I seduced you, Gervaise?"

"Alas! yes, that is the word: seduced, monsieur, shamelessly seduced by your fine words, by your false promises."

"By my fine words and false promises?"

"Yes. Didn't you tell me I was the prettiest girl in the whole quarter of Saint-Germain des Prés?"

"I tell you that now."

"Didn't you say that, if I didn't love you, you should die of love?"

"Do you think I said that? It's strange I don't remember it."

"While, on the contrary, if I did love you, you would marry me."

"Gervaise, I didn't say that. Never!"

"You did say it, monsieur."

"Never, never, never, Gervaise. My father made me take an oath like Hannibal's to Hamilcar."

"What was that?"

"He made me swear to die a bachelor, like himself."

"Oh!" cried Gervaise, summoning tears to the assistance of her words with a woman's marvellous power of weeping to order, "oh! you're like all the rest. Promises cost nothing, and when the poor girl is seduced they forget what they promised. I will take my turn at swearing now, and swear that I will never be caught again."

"And you will do well, Gervaise," said the student.

"When one thinks," cried the grisette, "that there are laws for robbers and cut-purses, and none for the scoundrels who ruin poor girls!"

"But there are, Gervaise."

"There are?"

"Why, of course. Didn't I tell you that they sent poor Ascanio to the Châtelet for seducing Colombe."

"They did well, too," said Gervaise, to whom the loss of her honor had never presented itself so forcibly until she was fully convinced that Jacques Aubry was determined not to give her his name by way of compensation. "Yes, they did well, and I wish you were in the Châtelet with him!"

"Mon Dieu! that's all I ask," cried the student; "and as I told you, my little Gervaise, I rely upon you to put me there."

"You rely upon me."

"Yes."

"Make sport of me, ingrate!"

"I'm not making sport of you, Gervaise. I say that if you had the courage—"

"To do what?"

"Accuse me before the judge."

"Of what?"

"Of having seduced you; but you would never dare."

"What's that? I wouldn't dare," cried Gervaise in an injured tone,—"I wouldn't dare to tell the truth!"

"Consider that you would have to make oath to it, Gervaise."

"I'll do it."

"You will make oath that I seduced you?"

"Yes, yes,—a hundred times yes!"

"Then all goes well," said the student joyfully. "I confess I was afraid: an oath is a serious matter."

"I'll take my oath to it this instant, and send you to the Châtelet, monsieur."

"Good!"

"And you will find your Ascanio there."

"Splendid!"

"And you will have all the time you need to do penance together."

"It's all that I ask."

"Where is the lieutenant criminal?"

"At the Palais de Justice."

"I will go there at once."

"Let us go together, Gervaise."

"Yes, together. In that way the punishment will follow at once."

"Take my arm, Gervaise."

"Come, monsieur."

They set off toward the Palais de Justice at the same gait at which they were accustomed to repair on Sundays to the Pré-aux-Clercs or the Butte Montmartre.

As they drew near the Temple of Themis, as Jacques Aubry poetically called the edifice in question, Gervaise's pace slackened perceptibly. When they reached the foot of the staircase, she had some difficulty in ascending; and finally, at the door of the lieutenant criminal's sanctum, her legs failed her altogether, and the student felt her whole weight hanging upon his arm.

"Well, Gervaise," said he, "is your courage giving out?"

"No," said Gervaise, "but a lieutenant criminal is an appalling creature."

"Pardieu! he's a man like other men!"

"True, but one must tell him things—"

"Very well; tell them."

"But I must swear."

"Then swear."

"Jacques," said Gervaise, "are you quite sure that you seduced me?"

"Am I sure of it!" said Jacques. "Pardieu! Besides, didn't you just insist upon it yourself that I did?"

"Yes, that is true; but, strangely enough, I don't seem to see things now in just the same light that I did a short time ago."

"Come, come," said Jacques, "you are weakening already: I knew you would."

"Jacques, my dear," cried Gervaise, "take me back to the house."

"Gervaise, Gervaise," said the student, "this isn't what you promised me."

"Jacques, I will never reproach you again, or say a word about it. I loved you because you took my fancy, that's all."

"Alas!" said the student, "this is what I feared; but it's too late."

"How too late?"

"You came here to accuse me, and accuse me you must."

"Never, Jacques, never: you didn't seduce me, Jacques; I was a flirt."

"Nonsense!" cried the student.

"Besides," added Gervaise, lowering her eyes, "one can be seduced but once."

"What do you mean?"

"The first time one loves."

"Hoity-toity! and you made me believe that you had never loved!"

"Jacques, take me back to the house."

"Oh indeed I won't!" said Jacques, exasperated by her refusal, and by the reason she gave for it. "No! no! no!"

And he knocked at the magistrate's door.

"What are you doing?" cried Gervaise.

"You see! I am knocking."

"Come in!" cried a nasal voice.

"I will not go in," exclaimed Gervaise, doing her utmost to release her arm from the student's. "I will not go in!"

"Come in," said the same voice a second time, a little more emphatically.

"Jacques, I will shriek, I will call for help," said Gervaise.

"Come in, I say!" said the voice a third time, nearer at hand, and at the same moment the door opened.

"Well! what do you want?" said a tall thin man dressed in black, the mere sight of whom made Gervaise tremble from head to foot.

"Mademoiselle here," said Aubry, "has come to enter complaint against a knave who has seduced her."

With that he pushed Gervaise into the black, filthy closet, which served as an anteroom to the lieutenant criminal's office. The door closed behind her as if by a spring.

Gervaise gave a feeble shriek, half terror, half surprise, and sat down, or rather fell, upon a stool which stood against the wall.

Jacques Aubry, meanwhile, lest she should call him back, or run after him, hurried away through corridors known only to law students and advocates, until he reached the courtyard of Sainte-Chapelle; thence he tranquilly pursued his way to Pont Saint-Michel, which it was absolutely certain that Gervaise must cross.

Half an hour later she appeared.

"Well!" said he, running to meet her, "what happened?"

"Alas!" said Gervaise, "you made me tell a monstrous lie; but I hope God will forgive me for it in view of my good intention."

"I'll take it upon myself," said Aubry. "Tell me what happened."

"Do you fancy that I know?" said Gervaise. "I was so ashamed that I hardly remember what it was all about. All I know is that the lieutenant criminal questioned me, and that I answered his questions sometimes yes, sometimes no: but I am not sure that I answered as I should."

"Wretched girl!" cried Aubry, "I believe it will turn out that she accused herself of seducing me."

"Oh, no! I don't think I went as far as that."

"At least they have my address, haven't they, so that they can summon me?"

"Yes," murmured Gervaise, "I gave it to them."

"It's all right then," said Aubry, "and now let us hope that God will do the rest."

Having escorted Gervaise to her abode and comforted her as best he could for the false testimony she had been compelled to give, Jacques Aubry returned home, overflowing with faith in Providence.

In fact, whether Providence took a hand in it, or chance did it all, Jacques Aubry received the next morning a summons to appear before the lieutenant criminal that same day.

This summons fulfilled Aubry's dearest hopes, and yet a court of justice is so redoubtable a place that he felt a shiver run through his veins as he read it. But we hasten to say that the certainty of seeing Ascanio again, and the longing to save the friend upon whom he had brought disaster, soon put an end to this demonstration of weakness on our student's part.

The summons fixed the hour of noon, and it was only nine o'clock: so he called upon Gervaise, whom he found no less agitated than on the previous day.

"Well?" said she, inquiringly.

"Well!" repeated Jacques triumphantly, exhibiting the paper covered with hieroglyphics which he held in his hand. "Here it is."

"For what hour?"

"Noon. That's all I was able to read."

"Then you don't know what you're accused of?"

"Why, of seducing you, my little Gervaise, I presume."

"You won't forget that you yourself insisted upon my doing it?"

"Why no; I am ready to give you a certificate that you utterly refused to do it."

"Then you bear me no ill will for obeying you."

"On the contrary, I couldn't be more grateful to you."

"Whatever happens?"

"Whatever happens."

"If I did say all that, it was because I was obliged to."

"Of course."

"And if, in my confusion, I said more than I meant to say, you will forgive me?"

"Not only will I forgive you, my dear, my divine Gervaise, but I do forgive you now in advance."

"Ah!" said Gervaise, with a sigh; "ah! bad boy, with such words as those you turned my head!"

From which it is easy to see that Gervaise had really been seduced.

At a quarter before twelve Jacques Aubry remembered that his summons bade him appear at twelve. He took leave of Gervaise, and as he had a long distance to go he ran all the way. Twelve o'clock was striking as he knocked at the lieutenant criminal's door.

"Come in!" cried the same nasal voice.

He was not called upon to repeat the invitation, for Jacques Aubry, with a smile on his lips, his nose in the air, and his cap over his ear, at once stood in the tall black-coated man's presence.

"What is your name?" asked the tall man.

"Jacques Aubry," replied the student.

"What are you?"

"Law student."

"What have you been doing?"

"Seducing girls."

"Aha! you're the man against whom a complaint was lodged yesterday by—by—"

"By Gervaise-Perrette Popinot."

"Very good; sit down yonder and await your turn."

Jacques sat down as the man in black bade him do, and waited.

Five or six persons of varying age, sex, and feature were waiting like himself, and as they had arrived before him their turns naturally came before his. Some of them went out alone,—they were the ones, doubtless, against whom no sufficient evidence was adduced,—while others went out accompanied by an exempt, or by two of the provost's guards. Jacques Aubry envied the fortune of these latter, for they were being taken to the Châtelet, to which he was so anxious to be admitted.

At last the name of Jacques Aubry, student, was called. Jacques Aubry instantly rose and rushed into the magistrate's office as joyously as if he were on his way to the most agreeable of entertainments.

There were two men in the lieutenant criminal's sanctum; one taller, thinner, and more forbidding than he in the antechamber, which Jacques Aubry would have deemed impossible five minutes earlier: this was the clerk. The other was short, fat, coarse, with a cheerful eye, a smiling mouth, and a jovial expression generally: this was the magistrate.

Aubry's smile and his met, and the student was quite ready to grasp his hand, so strongly conscious was he of the existence of a bond of sympathy between them.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the lieutenant criminal, as he caught the student's eye.

"Faith, that is true, messire," the student rejoined.

"You seem a jolly dog," said the magistrate. "Come, master knave, take a chair and sit you down."

Jacques Aubry took a chair, sat down, threw one leg over the other and swung it in high glee.

"Ah!" exclaimed the lieutenant, rubbing his hands. "Master Clerk, let us look over the complainant's deposition."

The clerk rose, and, by virtue of his great height, readied over to the other side of the table, and selected the documents concerning Jacques Aubry from a pile of papers.

"Here it is," he said.

"Who lodges the complaint?" inquired the magistrate.

"Gervaise-Perrette Popinot," said the clerk.

"That's it," said the student, nodding his head violently; "that's the one."

"A minor," said the clerk; "nineteen years of age."

"Oho! a minor!" exclaimed Aubry.

"So it appears from her declaration."

"Poor Gervaise!" muttered Aubry. "She was quite right when she said that she was so confused she didn't know what answers she made; she has confessed to twenty-two. However, nineteen it is."

"And so," said the lieutenant criminal, "and so, my buck, you are charged with seducing a minor child. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Ha! ha! ha!" echoed Aubry, joining in the judge's hilarity.

"With aggravating circumstances," continued the clerk, mingling his yelping tones with the jovial voices of the magistrate and the student.

"With aggravating circumstances," repeated the former.

"The devil!" exclaimed Jacques. "I should like very much to know what they were."

"As the complainant remained deaf to all the entreaties and wiles of the accused for six months—"

"For six months?" Jacques interposed. "Pardon, monsieur, I think there's a mistake there."

"For six months, monsieur, so it is written," replied the man in black, in a tone which admitted no rejoinder.

"So be it! six months it is," said Jacques; "but in truth Gervaise was quite right when she said—"

"The said Jacques Aubry, angered by her coldness, threatened her—"

"Oh! oh!" exclaimed Jacques.

"Oh! oh!" echoed the judge.

"But," the clerk read on, "the said Gervaise-Perrette Popinot held out so stubbornly and courageously that the insolent fellow begged her forgiveness in view of his sincere repentance."

"Ah! ah!" muttered Aubry.

"Ah! ah!" exclaimed the magistrate.

"Poor Gervaise!" Aubry continued, speaking to himself, with a shrug; "what was the matter with her head?"

"But," continued the clerk, "his repentance was only feigned; unfortunately, the complainant, in her innocence and purity, allowed herself to be deceived by it, and one evening, when she was imprudent enough to accept refreshments of which the accused invited her to partake, the said Jacques Aubry mixed with her water—"

"With her water?" the student interrupted.

"The complainant declared that she never drinks wine," said the clerk.—"The said Jacques Aubry mixed an intoxicating decoction with her water."

"Look you, Master Clerk," cried Aubry; "what the deuce are you reading from?"

"The complainant's deposition."

"Impossible!"

"Is it so written?" inquired the magistrate.

"It is written."

"Go on."

"After all," said Aubry aside, "the more guilty I am, the surer I shall be of being sent to join Ascanio at the Châtelet. Intoxicating decoction it is. Go on, Master Clerk."

"You confess, do you?" queried the judge.

"I confess," said the student.

"Ah, gallows-bird!" exclaimed the judge, roaring with laughter, and rubbing his hands.

"So that," continued the clerk, "poor Gervaise, bereft of her reason, ended by confessing to her seducer that she loved him."

"Aha!" said Jacques.

"Lucky knave!" murmured the lieutenant criminal, whose little eyes shone.

"Why!" cried Aubry; "why, there isn't a word of truth in the whole of it!"

"You deny the charge?"

"Absolutely."

"Write," said the magistrate, "that the accused declares that he is not guilty of any of the charges brought against him."

"Wait a moment! wait a moment!" cried the student, who reflected that if he denied his guilt, they would not send him to prison.

"So you don't deny it altogether?" queried the judge.

"I confess that there is some little truth, not in the form, but in the substance."

"Oh! as you have confessed to the decoction," said the judge, "you may as well admit the results."

"True," said Jacques, "as I've confessed to the decoction, I admit the rest, Master Clerk. But, upon my word," he added in an undertone, "Gervaise was quite right in saying—"

"But that's not all," the clerk interrupted him.

"What! that's not all!"

"The crime of which the accused was guilty had terrible results. The unhappy Gervaise discovered that she was about to become a mother."

"Ah! that is too much!" cried Jacques.

"Do you deny the paternity?" asked the judge.

"Not only do I deny the paternity, but I deny the condition."

"Write," said the judge, "that the accused denies the paternity, and also denies the condition; an inquiry will be ordered on that point."

"One moment, one moment!" cried Aubry, realizing that if Gervaise were convicted of falsehood on a single point the whole structure would fall to the ground: "did Gervaise really say what the clerk has read?"

"She said it word for word," replied the clerk.

"Then if she said it," continued Aubry, "if she said it—why—"

"Well?" queried the lieutenant criminal.

"Why, it must be so."

"Write that the accused pleads guilty to all the charges."

The clerk wrote as directed.

"Pardieu!" said the student to himself, "if Ascanio deserves a week in the Châtelet for simply paying court to Colombe, I, who have deceived Gervaise, drugged her, and seduced her, can count upon three months' incarceration at the very least. But, faith, I would like to be sure of my facts. However, I must congratulate Gervaise. Peste! she kept to her word, and Jeanne d'Arc was nowhere beside her."

"So you confess to all the crimes you're accused of?" said the judge.

"I do, messire," replied Jacques unhesitatingly; "I do: all of them and more too, if you choose. I am a great sinner, Monsieur le Lieutenant Criminel, don't spare me."

"Impudent varlet!" muttered the magistrate, in the tone in which the uncle of comedy speaks to his nephew, "impudent varlet, out upon you!"

With that he let his great round head, with his bloated, purple face, fall upon his breast, and reflected magisterially.

"Whereas," he began, after meditating a few moments, raising his head, and lifting the index finger of his right hand,—"write, Master Clerk,—whereas Jacques Aubry, clerk of the Basoche, has pleaded guilty to the charge of seducing one Gervaise-Perrette Popinot by fine promises and simulated affection, we sentence said Jacques Aubry to pay a fine of twenty Paris sous, to support the child, if it is a boy, and to pay the costs."

"And the imprisonment?" cried Aubry.

"Imprisonment! what do you mean?" asked the judge.

"Why, I mean the imprisonment. For Heaven's sake, aren't you going to sentence me to prison?"

"No."

"You're not going to order me committed to the Châtelet as Ascanio was?"

"Who's Ascanio?"

"Ascanio is a pupil of Master Benvenuto Cellini."

"What did he do?"

"He seduced a maid."

"Who was she?"

"Mademoiselle Colombe d'Estourville, daughter of the Provost of Paris."

"What then?"

"What then! why I say that it's unjust, when we both committed the same crime, to make a distinction in the punishment. What! you send him to prison and fine me twenty Paris sous! In God's name, is there no justice in this world?"

"On the contrary," rejoined the magistrate, "it is because there is justice in this world, and enlightened justice too, that this is as it is."

"How so?"

"There are honors and honors, my young rascal; the honor of a noble maiden is valued at imprisonment; the honor of a grisette is worth twenty Paris sous. If you want to go to the Châtelet, you must try your arts on a duchess, and then the affair will take care of itself."

"But this is frightful! immoral! outrageous!" cried the student.

"My dear friend," said the judge, "pay your fine and begone!"

"I won't pay my fine, and I won't go."

"Then I shall call a couple of archers and commit you to prison until you do pay it."

"That's all I ask."

The judge summoned two guards:—

"Take this scoundrel to the Grands-Carmes!"

"The Grands-Carmes!" cried Jacques; "why not the Châtelet, pray?"

"Because the Châtelet is not a debtor's prison, my friend; because the Châtelet is a royal fortress, and one must have committed some heinous crime to be sent there. The Châtelet! Ah! yes, my little fellow, you'll get to the Châtelet soon enough, just wait!"

"One moment," said Aubry, "one moment."

"What is it?"

"If I am not to be sent to the Châtelet, I will pay."

"Very well; if you pay, there's nothing more to be said. You may go, you fellows, the young man will pay."

The archers went out and Jacques Aubry took from his wallet twenty Paris sous, which he spread out in a line on the judge's desk.

"See if that is right," said the lieutenant criminal.

The clerk rose, and to execute the order bent his back like a how, embracing in the half-circle described by his body, which seemed to possess the power of lengthening itself out indefinitely, his table and the papers which lay upon it. As he stood with his feet on the floor and his hands on the judge's desk, he reminded one of a sombre-hued rainbow.

"It is right," he said.

"Then off with you, my young rascal," said the magistrate, "and give place to others; the court has no more time to waste on you. Go."

Jacques saw that he had nothing to gain by remaining there, and withdrew in despair.

XIII IN WHICH JACQUES AUBRY RISES TO EPIC PROPORTIONS

"Well, upon my word," said the student to himself as he left the Palais de Justice, and mechanically crossed the Pont aux Moulins, which brought him out almost opposite the Châtelet; "upon my word, I am curious to know what Gervaise will say when she learns that her honor is valued at twenty Paris sous! She will say that I have been indiscreet, and told things I shouldn't have told, and she'll tear my eyes out. But what do I see yonder?"

What the student saw was a page belonging to the amiable nobleman to whom he was accustomed to confide his secrets, and whom he looked upon as one of his dearest friends. The boy was leaning up against the parapet of the bridge and amusing himself by performing sleight-of-hand tricks with pebbles.

"Pardieu!" said the student, "this happens very fortunately. My friend, whose name I don't know, and who seems to stand extremely well at court, may have influence enough to have me committed to prison: Providence sends his page to me to tell me where I can find him, as I know neither his name nor his address."

In order to avail himself of what he considered a direct interposition of Providence in his behalf, Jacques Aubry advanced toward the young page, who likewise recognized him, and, letting his three pebbles fall into the same hand, crossed his legs and awaited the student with that knowing look which is especially characteristic of the profession to which he had the honor to belong.

"Bon jour, Monsieur le Page," cried Aubry from the most distant point at which he thought the boy could hear his voice.

"Bon jour, Seigneur Student," was the reply; "what are you doing in this quarter?"

"Faith! if I must tell you, I was looking for something which I think I have found, now that I see you; I was seeking the address of my excellent friend, the comte—the baron—the vicomte—your master's address."

"Do you wish to see him?" asked the page.

"Instantly, if possible."

"In that case you will have your wish in a moment, for he is calling on the provost."

"At the Châtelet."

"Yes, he will come out directly."

"He's very lucky to be admitted to the Châtelet when he wishes; but is my friend the vicomte—the comte—the baron—"

"Vicomte."

"On intimate terms with Messire Robert d'Estourville? The Vicomte de— Tell me," continued Aubry, anxious to avail himself of the opportunity to learn his friend's name at last; "the Vicomte de—"

"The Vicomte de Mar—"

"Ah!" cried the student, interrupting the page in the middle of the word, as he saw the man he sought appear at the door. "Ah! my dear viscount, there you are. I was looking for you and waiting for you."

"Bon jour," said Marmagne, evidently but little pleased at the meeting. "Bon jour, my dear fellow. I would be glad to talk with you, but unfortunately I am very hurried. So adieu."

"One moment, one moment," cried Jacques, clinging to his friend's arm; "deuce take me! you won't leave me like this. In the first place I have a very great favor to ask of you."

"You?"

"Yes, I; and God's law, you know, bids friends to succor one another."

"Friends?"

"To be sure; aren't you my friend? What constitutes friendship? Confidence. Now I am full of confidence in you. I tell you all my own business, and other people's too."

"Have you ever had occasion to repent of your confidence."

"Never, so far as you are concerned at least; but it's not so with everybody. There is one man in Paris that I am looking for, and with God's help I shall meet him some day."

"My dear fellow," interrupted Marmagne, who had a shrewd suspicion who the man was, "I told you that I was much hurried."

"But wait a moment, pray, when I tell you that you can do me a great service."

"Well, speak quickly."

"You stand well at court, do you not?"

"My friends say so."

"You have some influence then?"

"My enemies may discover it to their cost."

"Very good! Now my dear comte—my dear baron—my dear—"

"Vicomte."

"Help me to get into the Châtelet."

"In what capacity?"

"As a prisoner."

"As a prisoner? That's a singular ambition, on my word."

"As you please, but it's my ambition."

"For what purpose do you wish to be committed to the Châtelet?" queried Marmagne, who suspected that this strange desire on the part of the student indicated some new secret which it might be to his advantage to know.

"To any other than you I wouldn't tell it, my good friend," replied Jacques; "or I have learned to my cost, or rather to poor Ascanio's, that I must learn to hold my tongue. But with you it's a different matter. You know that I have no secrets from you."

"In that case tell me quickly."

"Will you have me committed to the Châtelet if I tell you?"

"Instantly."

"Well, my friend, imagine that I was idiot enough to confide to others than yourself the fact that I had seen a lovely girl in the head of the statue of Mars."

"What then?"

"The crack-brained fools! would you believe that they spread the story so that it came to the provost's ears; and as the provost had lost his daughter some days before, he suspected that it was she who had selected that hiding place. He notified D'Orbec and the Duchesse d'Etampes: they came to the Hôtel de Nesle to make a domiciliary visit while Benvenuto Cellini was at Fontainebleau. They carried off Colombe and imprisoned Ascanio."

"Nonsense!"

"It's as I tell you, my dear viscount. And who managed it all? A certain Vicomte de Marmagne."

"But," interposed the viscount, not at all pleased to hear his name upon the student's lips, "you don't tell me why you want to be committed to the Châtelet."

"You don't understand?"

"No."

"They arrested Ascanio."

"Yes."

"And took him to the Châtelet."

"Very good."

"But what they don't know, and what nobody knows save the Duchesse d'Etampes, Benvenuto, and myself, is that Ascanio possesses a certain letter, a certain secret, which places the duchess in his power. Now do you understand?"

"Yes I begin to see light. But do you help me, my dear friend."

"You see, viscount," continued Aubry, assuming a more and more aristocratic air, "I want to be admitted to the Châtelet, get to Ascanio's cell, take the letter or learn the secret, leave the prison again, go to Benvenuto and arrange with him some method whereby Colombe's virtue and Ascanio's love may triumph, to the confusion of the Marmagnes and D'Orbecs, the provost, the Duchesse d'Etampes, and the whole clique."

"That's a very ingenious plan," said Marmagne.

"Thanks for your confidence, my dear student. You shall have no reason to regret it."

"Do you promise me your assistance?"

"To what end?"

"Why, to help me get committed to the Châtelet, as I asked you."

"Rely upon me."

"Immediately?"

"Wait here for me."

"Where I am?"

"In this same spot."

"And you?"

"I am going to get the order for your arrest."

"Ah, my friend, my dear baron, my dear count! But you must tell me your name and address in case I may need you."

"Useless. I will return at once."

"Yes, return as soon as possible; and if you chance to meet that accursed Marmagne on the road, tell him—"

"What?"

"Tell him that I have sworn an oath that he shall die by no hand but mine."

"Adieu!" cried the viscount; "adieu, and wait here for me."

"Au revoir!" said Aubry. "I will expect you soon. Ah! you are a friend indeed, a man one can trust, and I would be glad to know—"

"Adieu, Seigneur Student," said the page, who had stood aloof during this conversation, and was now about to follow his master.

"Adieu, my pretty page," said Aubry; "but before you leave me do me a favor."

"What is it?"

"Who is this gallant nobleman to whom you have the honor to belong?"

"He whom you've been talking with for the last fifteen minutes?"

"The same."

"And whom you call friend?"

"Yes."

"You don't know his name?"

"No."

"Why, he is—"

"A very well known nobleman, is he not?"

"To be sure."

"And influential?"

"Next to the king and the Duchesse d'Etampes, he's the man."

"Ah! and his name you say is—"

"He is the Vicomte de—But he is turning back and calling me. Pardon—"

"The Vicomte de—"

"The Vicomte de Marmagne."

"Marmagne!" cried Aubry, "Vicomte de Marmagne! That young gentleman is the Vicomte de Marmagne!"

"Himself."

"Marmagne! the friend of the provost and D'Orbec and Madame d'Etampes?"

"In person."

"And the enemy of Benvenuto Cellini?"

"Just so."

"Ah!" exclaimed Aubry, to whom the whole past was revealed as by a flash of lightning. "Ah! I understand now. O Marmagne, Marmagne!"

As the student was unarmed, with a movement as swift as thought, he seized the page's short sword by the hilt, drew it from its sheath, and darted in pursuit of Marmagne, shouting, "Halt!"

At his first shout, Marmagne, decidedly ill at ease, looked around, and, seeing Aubry rushing after him sword in hand, suspected that he was discovered. To stand his ground or fly was therefore the only alternative. Marmagne was not quite courageous enough to stand his ground, nor was he quite enough of a coward to fly; he therefore adopted the intermediate course of darting into a house, the door of which stood open, hoping to close the door behind him. But unluckily for him it was held fast to the wall by a chain which he could not detach, so that Aubry, who was some little distance behind him, was in the little courtyard before he had time to reach the staircase.

"Ah! Marmagne! you damned viscount! you infernal spy! you filcher of secrets! it's you, is it? At last I know you, and have my hand on you! On guard, villain! on guard!"

"Monsieur," replied Marmagne, trying to assume a lordly bearing, "do you imagine that the Vicomte de Marmagne will honor the student Jacques Aubry by crossing swords with him?"

"If the Vicomte de Marmagne will not honor Jacques Aubry by crossing swords with him, Jacques Aubry will have the honor of passing his sword through the Vicomte de Marmagne's body."

To leave no doubt in the mind of him to whom this threat was addressed, Jacques Aubry placed the point of his sword against the viscount's breast, and let him feel the touch of the cold steel through his doublet.

"Murder!" cried Marmagne. "Help! help!"

"Oh, shout as much as you choose," retorted Jacques; "you will have done shouting before any one comes. And so the best thing you can do, viscount, is to defend yourself. On guard, viscount! on guard!"

"If you will have it so," cried the viscount, "wait a bit, and you will see!"

Marmagne, as the reader will have discovered ere this, was not naturally brave; but like all noblemen of that chivalrous epoch he had received a military education; furthermore, he was reputed to have some skill in fencing. It is true that this reputation was said to result rather in enabling him to avoid unpleasant encounters which he might have had, than in bringing to a fortunate conclusion those which he did have. It is none the less true that, being closely pressed by Jacques, he drew his sword and stood on guard in the most approved style of the art.

But if Marmagne's skill was recognized among the noblemen at court, Jacques Aubry's address was accepted as an incontestable fact among the students at the University and the clerks of the Basoche. The result was, that the moment their swords crossed each of the combatants saw that he had to do with no despicable opponent. But Marmagne had one great advantage; the page's sword, which Aubry had taken, was six inches shorter than the viscount's; this was no great disadvantage in defensive work, but became a serious matter when he wished to assume the offensive. Furthermore, Marmagne was six inches taller than the student, and being armed with a sword as much longer he had simply to present the point at his face to keep him at a distance, while Jacques cut and thrust and feinted to no purpose. Marmagne, without retreating a step, got out of reach simply by drawing his right leg back beside the left. The consequence was that, despite Aubry's agility, the viscount's long sword grazed his chest several times, while he could succeed in cutting nothing more substantial than the air, try as hard as he would.

Aubry realized that he was lost if he continued to play the same game, but in order to give his opponent no idea of the plan he proposed to adopt, he continued to thrust and parry in the ordinary way, gaining ground imperceptibly inch by inch; when he thought he was sufficiently near he allowed himself to be caught off guard as if through awkwardness. Marmagne, seeing an opening, made a lunge, but Aubry was ready for him; he parried the blow, and, taking advantage of the position of his opponent's sword, two inches above his head, darted under it, leaped upon him, and thrust as he leaped, so cleverly and so vigorously that the page's short sword disappeared up to the hilt in the viscount's breast.

Marmagne uttered one of those shrill cries, which indicate a severe wound; his hand fell to his side, the blood left his cheeks, and he fell headlong to the ground.

At that moment the patrol came running up, attracted by Marmagne's shrieks, the gestures of the page, and the sight of the crowd in front of the door. As Aubry still held his bloody sword in his hand, they arrested him.

Aubry undertook at first to make some resistance; but as the leader of the patrol shouted, "Disarm the villain and take him to the Châtelet," he gave up his sword, and followed the guards to the prison to which he was so anxious to gain admission, marvelling at the merciful decrees of Providence, which accorded him at the same time the two things he most desired,—vengeance upon Marmagne, and access to Ascanio.

This time no objection was made to his reception within the walls of the royal fortress; but as it seemed that it was at the moment somewhat overburdened with guests, there was a long discussion between the jailer and the warden of the prison, as to where the new comer should be lodged. At last the two worthies seemed to agree upon the point; the jailer motioned to Aubry to follow him, led him down thirty-two steps, opened a door, pushed him into a very dark dungeon, and closed the door behind him.

XIV OF THE DIFFICULTY WHICH AN HONEST MAN EXPERIENCES IN SECURING HIS RELEASE FROM PRISON

The student stood for an instant blinded by the abrupt transition from light to darkness. Where was he? He had no idea. Was he near Ascanio or far from him? He knew not. In the corridor through which he had passed, he had noticed but two other doors beside the one which was opened for him. But his primary object was gained; he was under the same roof as his friend.

Meanwhile, as he could not spend the rest of his life in that one spot, and as he could see at the other end of the dungeon, about fifteen feet away, a faint ray of light struggling in through an air-hole, he cautiously put forth his leg, with the instinctive purpose of walking to that spot; but at the second step that he took the floor seemed suddenly to give way under his feet; he plunged down three or four stairs, and would doubtless have gone head foremost against the wall had not his feet come in contact with some object which tripped him up. The result was that he escaped with nothing worse than a few bruises.

The object which had unwittingly rendered him so important a service, uttered a hollow groan.

"I beg your pardon," said Jacques, rising and politely removing his cap. "It seems that I stepped upon some person or some thing, a rudeness of which I should never have been guilty, if I had been able to see clearly."

"You stepped," said a voice, "upon what was for sixty years a man, but is soon to become a corpse for all eternity."

"In that case," said Jacques, "my regret is all the greater for having disturbed you at a moment when you were engaged doubtless, as every good Christian should be at such a time, in settling your accounts with God."

"My accounts are all settled, Master Student: I have sinned like a man, but I have suffered like a martyr; and I hope that God, when weighing my sins and my sorrows, will find that the sum of the latter exceeds that of the former."

"Amen!" said Aubry, "I hope so too with all my heart. But if it will not fatigue you too much, my dear companion in adversity,—I say my dear companion, because I presume you bear no malice on account of the little accident which procured me the honor of your acquaintance a short time since,—if it will not fatigue you too much, I say, pray tell me how you succeeded in ascertaining that I am a student."

"I knew it by your costume, and by the inkhorn hanging at your belt, in the place where a gentleman carries his dagger."

"You say you knew it by my costume,—by the inkhorn? Ah! my dear companion, you told me, if I mistake not, that you are at the point of death?"

"I hope that I have at last reached the end of my sufferings: yes, I hope to fall asleep to-day on earth, to wake to-morrow in heaven."

"I in no wise dispute what you say," replied Jacques, "but I will venture to remind you that your present situation is not one in which it is customary to joke."

"Who says that I am joking?" murmured the dying man with a deep sigh.

"What! you say that you recognized me by my costume, by the inkhorn at my belt, and I, look as hard as I may, cannot see my hands before my face."

"Possibly," rejoined the prisoner, "but when you have been fifteen years in a dungeon as I have, you will be able to see in the darkness, as well as you could see formerly in broad daylight."

"May the devil tear my eyes out rather than make them serve such an apprenticeship!" cried the student. "Fifteen years! you have been fifteen years in prison?"

"Fifteen or sixteen years, perhaps more, perhaps less. I long since ceased to count days or to measure time."

"You must have committed some abominable crime," cried the student, "to have been punished so pitilessly."

"I am innocent," replied the prisoner.

"Innocent!" cried Jacques aghast. "Ah! my dear comrade, I have already reminded you that this is no time for joking."

"And I replied that I was not joking."

"But still less is it a time for lying, for a joke is simply a relaxation of the mind, which offends neither heaven nor earth, while lying is a deadly sin, which compromises the soul's wellbeing."

"I have never lied."

"Why you say that you are innocent, and yet you have been fifteen years in prison?"

"Fifteen years more or less, I said."

"Ah!" cried Jacques, "and I also am innocent!"

"May God protect you then!" rejoined the dying man.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because a guilty man may hope for pardon; an innocent man, never!"

"What you say is very profound, my friend; but it's not consoling at all, do you know?"

"I tell you the truth."

"Come," said Jacques, "come, you have some little peccadillo or other to reproach yourself with, haven't you? Between ourselves, tell me about it."

With that Jacques, who was really beginning to distinguish objects in the darkness, took a stool, carried it to the dying man's bedside, and, selecting a spot where there was a recess in the wall, placed the stool there and made himself as comfortable as possible in his improvised arm-chair.

"Ah! you say nothing, my friend; you have no confidence in me. Oh, well! I can understand that: fifteen years in prison may well have made you suspicious. My name is Jacques Aubry. I am twenty-two years old, and a student, as you have discovered,—according to what you say, at least. I had certain reasons which concern myself alone, for getting myself committed to the Châtelet; I have been here ten minutes; I have had the honor of making your acquaintance. There's my whole life in a word, and you know me now as well as I know myself. Now, my dear companion, I will listen to you."

"I am Etienne Raymond," said the prisoner.

"Etienne Raymond," the student repeated; "I don't know that name."

"In the first place," said the prisoner, "you were a child when it pleased God to have me disappear from the world: in the next place, I was of little consequence in the world, so that no one noticed my absence."

"But what did you do? Who were you?"

"I was the Connétable de Bourbon's confidential servant."

"Oho! and you had a share with him in betraying the state. In that case I am no longer surprised."

"No; I refused to betray my master, that was all."

"Tell me about it; how did it happen?"

"I was at the constable's hôtel in Paris, while he was living at his château of Bourbon-l'Archambault. One day the captain of his guards arrived with a letter from monseigneur. The letter bade me instantly hand to the messenger a small sealed package which I would find in the duke's bedroom in a small closet near the head of his bed. I went with the captain to the bedroom, opened the closet, found the package in the place described, and handed it to the messenger, who immediately took his leave. An hour later an officer with a squad of soldiers came from the Louvre, and bade me throw open the duke's bedroom and show them a small closet near the head of the bed. I obeyed: they opened the closet, but failed to find what they sought, which was nothing less than the package the duke's messenger had carried away."

"The devil! the devil!" muttered Aubry, beginning to take a deep interest in the situation of his companion in misfortune.

"The officer made some terrible threats, to which I made no other reply than that I knew nothing about what he asked me; for if I had said that I had just handed the package to the duke's messenger, they could have pursued him and taken it from him."

"Peste!" Aubry interrupted; "that was clever of you, and you acted like a faithful and trusty retainer."

"Thereupon the officer gave me in charge to two guards, and returned to the Louvre with the others. In half an hour he returned with orders to take me to the château of Pierre-Encise at Lyons. They put irons on my feet, bound my hands, and tossed me into a carriage with a soldier on either side. Five days later I was confined in a prison, which, I ought to say, was far from being as dark and severe as this. But what does that matter?" muttered the dying man; "a prison 's a prison, and I have ended by becoming accustomed to this, as to all the others."

"Hum!" said Jacques Aubry; "that proves you to be a philosopher."

"Three days and three nights passed," continued Etienne Raymond; "at last, during the fourth night, I was awakened by a slight noise. I opened my eyes; my door turned upon its hinges; a woman closely veiled entered with the jailer. The jailer placed a lamp upon the table, and, at a sign from my nocturnal visitor, left the cell; thereupon she drew near my bed and raised her veil. I cried aloud."

"Hein? who was it, pray?" Aubry asked, edging closer to the narrator.

"It was Louise of Savoy herself, the Duchesse d'Angoulême in person; it was the Regent of France, the king's mother."

"Oho!" said Aubry; "and what was she doing with a poor devil like you?"

"She was in quest of the same sealed package which I had delivered to the duke's messenger, and which contained love letters written by the imprudent princess to the man she was now persecuting."

"Well, upon my word!" muttered Jacques between his teeth, "here's a story most devilishly like the story of the Duchesse d'Etampes and Ascanio."

"Alas! the stories of all frivolous, love-sick princesses resemble one another," replied the prisoner, whose ears seemed to be as quick as his eyes were piercing; "but woe to the poor devils who happen to be involved in them!"

"Stay a moment! stay a moment, prophet of evil!" cried Aubry; "what the devil's that you're saying? I too am involved in the story of a frivolous, love-sick princess."

"Very well; if that is so, say farewell to the light of day, say farewell to life."

"Go to the devil with your predictions of the other world! What's all that to me? I'm not the one she loves, but Ascanio."

"Was it I that the regent loved?" retorted the prisoner. "Was it I, whose very existence they had never heard of? No, but I was placed between a barren love and a fruitful vengeance, and when they came together I was the one to be crushed."

"By Mahomet's belly! you are not very encouraging, my good man!" cried Aubry. "But let us return to the princess, for your narrative interests me beyond measure, just because it makes me tremble."

"The packet contained letters which she wanted, as I have told you. In exchange for them she promised me honors, dignities, titles; to see those letters again she would have extorted four hundred thousand crowns anew from another Semblançay, though he should pay for his complaisance on the scaffold.

"I replied that I hadn't the letters, that I knew nothing about them, that I had no idea what she meant.

"Thereupon her munificent offers were succeeded by threats; but she found it no easier to intimidate than to bribe me, for I had told the truth. I had delivered the letters to my noble master's messenger.

"She left my cell in a furious rage, and for a year I heard nothing more. At the end of a year she returned, and the same scene was repeated.

"At that time I begged, I implored her to let me go free. I adjured her in the name of my wife and children; but to no purpose. I must give up the letters or die in prison.

"One day I found a file in my bread.

"My noble master had remembered me; absent, exiled, a fugitive as he was, of course he could not set me free by entreaty or by force. He sent one of his servants to France, who induced the jailer to hand me the file, telling me whence it came.

"I filed through one of the bars at my window. I made myself a rope with my sheets. I descended by the rope, but when I came to the end of it I felt in vain for the ground with my feet. I dropped, with God's name upon my lips, and broke my leg in the fall; a night patrol found me unconscious.

"I was thereupon transferred to the château of Chalons-sur-Saône. I remained there about two years, at the end of which time my persecutress made her appearance again. It was still the letters that brought her thither. This time she was accompanied by the torturer, and I was put to the question. This was useless barbarity, as she obtained no information,—indeed, she could obtain none. I knew nothing save that I had delivered the letters to the duke's messenger.

"One day at the bottom of my jug of water I found a bag filled with gold; once more my noble master bethought himself of his poor servant.

"I bribed a turnkey, or rather the miserable creature pretended to be bribed. At midnight he opened the door of my cell, and I went out. I followed him through several corridors; I could already feel the air that living men breathe, and thought that I was free, when guards rushed out upon us and bound us both. My guide had pretended to yield to my entreaties in order to get possession of the gold he had seen in my hands, and then betrayed me to earn the reward offered to informers.

"They brought me to the Châtelet, to this cell.

"Here, for the last time, Louise of Savoy appeared; she was accompanied by the executioner.

"The prospect of death could have no other effect than the promises, threats, and torture. My hands were bound; a rope was passed through a ring and placed around my neck. I made the same reply as always to her demands, adding that she would fulfil my dearest wish by putting me to death, for I was driven to despair by my life of captivity.

"It was that feeling, doubtless, which made her hold her hand. She went out and the executioner followed her.

"Since then I have never seen her. What has become of my noble master? What has become of the cruel duchess? I have no idea, for since that time, some fifteen years perhaps, I have not exchanged a single word with a single living being."

"They are both dead," said Aubry.

"Both dead! the noble-hearted duke is dead! Why, he would still be a young man, not more than fifty-two. How did he die?"

"He was killed at the siege of Rome, and probably—" Jacques was about to add, "by one of my friends," but he refrained, thinking that might cause a coolness between the old man and himself. Jacques, as we know, was becoming very discreet.

"Probably?" the prisoner repeated.

"By a goldsmith named Benvenuto Cellini."

"Twenty years ago I would have cursed the murderer: to-day I say from the bottom of my heart, 'May his murderer be blessed!' Did they give my noble lord a burial worthy of the man?"

"I think so: they built a tomb for him in the cathedral of Gaeta, and upon the tomb is an epitaph wherein it is said that, beside him who sleeps there, Alexander the Great was a sorry knave, and Cæsar an idle blackguard."

"And the other?"

"What other?"

"The woman who persecuted me?"

"Dead also: dead nine years since."

"Just so. One night, here in my cell, I saw a phantom kneeling and praying. I cried out and it disappeared. It was she asking my forgiveness."

"Do you think, then, that when death came upon her she relented?"

"I trust so, for her soul's sake."

"But in that case they should have set you free."

"She may have requested it, but I am of so little importance that I was probably forgotten in the excitement of that great catastrophe."

"And so you would likewise forgive her, as you are about to die?"

"Lift me up, young man, that I may pray for both of them." And the dying man, resting in Jacques Aubry's arms, coupled the names of his protector and persecutress in the same prayer: the man who had remembered him in his affection and the woman who had never forgotten him in her hatred,—the constable and the regent.

The prisoner was right. Jacques Aubry's eyes began to become accustomed to the darkness, and he could make out the dying man's features. He was a handsome old man, much emaciated by suffering, with a white beard and a bald head,—such a head as Domenichino dreamed of when painting his Confession of Saint-Jerome.

When his prayer was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and fell back upon the bed; he had swooned.

Jacques thought that he was dead. He ran to the water-jug, however, poured some water in the hollow of his hand, and shook it over his face. The dying man returned to life once more.

"You did well to revive me, young man," said he, "and here is your reward."

"What is that?"

"A dagger."

"A dagger! how did it come into your hands?"

"Wait one moment. One day, when the turnkey brought my bread and water, he put the lamp upon the stool which happened to be standing near the wall. In the wall at that point was a protruding stone, and I saw some letters cut with a knife upon it. I hadn't time to read them. But I dug up some earth with my hands, moistened it so as to make a sort of paste, and took an impression of the letters, which formed the word Ultor.

"What was the significance of that word, which means avenger? I returned to the stone. I tried to shake it. It moved like a tooth in its socket. By dint of patience and persistent efforts I succeeded in removing it from the wall. I immediately plunged my hand into the hole, and found this dagger.

"Thereupon the longing for liberty, which I had almost lost, returned to me in full force; I resolved to dig a passage-way from this to some dungeon near at hand with the dagger, and there concoct some plan of escape with its occupant. Besides, even if it all ended in failure, the digging and cutting was something to occupy my time; and when you have spent twenty years in a dungeon as I have, young man, you will realize what a formidable enemy time is."

Aubry shuddered from head to foot. "Did you ever put your plan in execution?" he inquired.

"Yes, and more easily than I anticipated. After the twelve or fifteen years that I have been here, they have doubtless ceased to think of my escape as a possibility: indeed, it's very likely that they no longer know who I am. They keep me, as they keep the chain hanging from yonder ring. The constable and the regent are dead, and they alone remembered me. Who would now recognize the name of Etienne Raymond, even in this place, if I should pronounce it? No one."

Aubry felt the perspiration starting from every pore as he thought of the oblivion into which this lost existence had fallen.

"Well?" he exclaimed questioningly,—"well?"

"For more than a year," said the old man, "I dug and dug, and I succeeded in making a hole under the wall large enough for a man to pass through."

"But what did you do with the dirt you took from the hole?"

"I strewed it over the floor of my cell, and trod it in by constantly walking upon it."

"Where is the hole?"

"Under my bed. For fifteen years no one has ever thought of moving it. The jailer came down into my cell only once a day. When he had gone, and the doors were closed, and the sound of his footsteps had died away, I would draw out my bed and set to work; when the time for his visit drew near, I would move the bed back to its place, and lie down upon it.

"Day before yesterday I lay down upon it never to rise again. I was at the end of my strength: to-day I am at the end of my life. You are most welcome, young man: you shall assist me to die, and I will make you my heir."

"Your heir!" said Aubry in amazement.

"To be sure. I will leave you this dagger. You smile. What more precious heritage could a prisoner leave you? This dagger is freedom, perhaps."

"You are right," said Aubry, "and I thank you. Whither does this hole that you have dug lead?"

"I had not reached the other end, but I was very near it. Day before yesterday I heard voices in the cell beside this."

"The devil!" said Aubry, "and you think—"

"I think that you will have finished my work in a very few hours."

"Thanks," said Aubry, "thanks."

"And now, a priest. I would much like to see a priest," said the moribund.

"Wait, father, wait," said Aubry; "it is impossible that they would refuse such a request from a dying man."

He ran to the door, this time without stumbling, his eyes being somewhat accustomed to the darkness, and knocked with feet and hands both.

A turnkey came down.

"What's the matter, that you make such an uproar?" he demanded, "what do you want?"

"The old man here with me is dying," said Aubry, "and asks for a priest: can you refuse?"

"Hum!" grumbled the jailer, "I don't know why these fellows must all want priests. It's all right: we'll send him one."

Ten minutes later the priest appeared, carrying the viaticum and preceded by two sacristans, one with the crucifix, the other with the bell.

A solemn and impressive spectacle was the confession of this martyr, who had naught to disclose but the crimes of others, and who prayed for his enemies instead of asking pardon for himself.

Unimaginative as was Jacques Aubry, he fell upon his knees, and remembered the prayers of his childhood, which he thought he had forgotten.

When the prisoner had finished his confession, the priest bowed before him and asked his blessing.

The old man's face lighted up with a smile as radiant as the smile of God's elect; he extended one hand over the priest's head and the other toward Aubry, drew a deep breath, and fell back upon his pillow. That breath was his last.

The priest went out as he had come, attended by his subordinates, and the dungeon, lighted for a moment by the flickering flame of the candles, became dark once more.

Jacques Aubry was alone with the dead. It was a very depressing situation, especially in the light of the reflections to which it gave rise. The man who lay lifeless before him had been consigned to prison an innocent man, had remained there twenty years, and went out at last only because Death, the great liberator, came in search of him.

The light-hearted student could not recognize himself: for the first time he found himself confronted by stern reality; for the first time he looked in the face the bewildering vicissitudes of life, and the calm profundity of death.

Then a selfish thought began to take shape in his heart. He thought of himself, innocent like the dead man, and like him involved in the complications of one of those royal passions which crush and consume and destroy a life. Ascanio and he might disappear, as Etienne Raymond had disappeared, who would think of them?

Gervaise perhaps, Benvenuto Cellini certainly.

But the former could do nothing but weep; and the other confessed his own powerlessness when he cried so loudly for the letter in Ascanio's possession.

His only chance of safety, his only hope, lay in the heritage of the dead man, an old dagger, which had already disappointed the expectations of its two former owners.

Jacques Aubry had hidden the dagger in his breast, and he nervously put his hand upon the hilt to make sure that it was still there.

At that moment the door opened, and men came in to remove the body.

"When shall you bring me my dinner?" Jacques asked. "I am hungry."

"In two hours," the jailer replied.

With that the student was left alone in the cell.

XV AN HONEST THEFT

Aubrey passed the two hours sitting upon his stool, without once moving: his mind was so active that it kept his body at rest.

At the appointed hour the turnkey came down, renewed the water, and changed the bread; this was what, in Châtelet parlance, was called a dinner.

The student remembered what the dying man told him, that the door of his cell would be opened but once in the twenty-four hours; however he still remained for a long while in the same place, absolutely motionless, fearing lest the event that had just occurred should cause some change in the routine of the prison.

He soon observed, through his air-hole, that it was beginning to grow dark. The day just passed had been a well filled day for him. In the morning, the examination by the magistrate; at noon, the duel with Marmagne; at one o'clock, lodged in prison; at three, the prisoner's death; and now his first attempts at securing his freedom.

A man does not pass many such days in his life.

Jacques Aubry rose at last, and walked to the door to listen for footsteps: then, in order that the dirt and the wall might leave no marks upon his doublet, he removed that portion of his costume, pulled the bed away from the corner, and found the opening of which his companion had spoken.

He crawled like a snake into the narrow gallery, which was some eight feet deep, and which, after making a dip under the partition wall, ascended on the other side.

As soon as he plunged his dagger into the earth he knew by the sound that he would very soon accomplish his purpose, which was to open a passage into some place or other. What that place would be only a sorcerer could have told.

He kept actively at work, making as little noise as possible. From time to time he went out of the excavation as a miner does, in order to scatter the loose earth about the floor of his cell; otherwise it would eventually have blocked up the gallery; then he would crawl back, and set to work once more.

While Aubrey was working, Ascanio was thinking sadly of Colombe.

He too, as we have said, had been taken to the Châtelet; he too had been cast into a dungeon. But, it may have been by chance, it may have been at the duchess's suggestion, his quarters were a little less bare, consequently a little more habitable, than the student's.

But what did Ascanio care for a little more or a little less comfort. His dungeon was a dungeon all the same; his captivity a separation. He had not Colombe, who was more to him than light, or liberty, or life. Were Colombe with him in his dungeon, the dungeon would become an abode of bliss, a palace of enchantment.

The poor child had been so happy during the days immediately preceding his arrest! Thinking of his beloved by day, and sitting by her side at night, he had never thought that his happiness might some day come to an end. And if, sometimes, in the midst of his felicity, the iron hand of doubt had clutched his heart, he had, like one threatened by danger from some unknown source, promptly put aside all uneasiness concerning the future that he might lose none of his present bliss.

And now he was in prison, alone, far from Colombe, who was perhaps imprisoned like himself, perhaps a prisoner in some convent, whence she could escape in no other way than by going to the chapel, where the husband whom they sought to force upon her awaited her.

Two redoubtable passions were standing guard at their cell doors; the love of Madame d'Etampes at Ascanio's, the ambition of Comte d'Orbec at Colombe's.

As soon as he was alone in his dungeon, therefore, Ascanio became very sad and down-hearted; his was one of those clinging natures which need the support of some robust organization; he was one of those slender, graceful flowers, which bend before the first breath of the tempest, and straighten up again only in the vivifying rays of the sun.

Had Benvenuto been in his place, his first thought would have been to examine the doors, sound the walls, and stamp upon the floor, to see if one or the other would not afford his quick and combative mind some possible means of escape. But Ascanio sat down upon his bed, let his head fall upon his breast, and whispered Colombe's name. It never occurred to him that one could escape by any possible means from a dungeon behind three iron doors and surrounded by walls six feet thick.

The dungeon was, as we have said, a little less bare and a little more habitable than that assigned to Jacques. It contained a bed, a table, two chairs, and an old rush mat. Furthermore, a lamp was burning upon a stone projection, doubtless arranged for that purpose. Beyond question it was a cell set apart for privileged prisoners.

There was also a great difference in the matter of food: instead of the bread and water which was brought to the student once a day, Ascanio enjoyed two daily repasts, a privilege somewhat neutralized by the consequent necessity of seeing the jailer twice in the twenty-four hours. These repasts, it should be said to the credit of the philanthropic administration of the Châtelet, were not altogether execrable.

Ascanio thought but little of such paltry details: his was one of those delicate feminine organizations which seem to exist on perfume and dew. Without awaking from his reverie he ate a hit of bread, drank a few drops of wine, and continued to think of Colombe and of Benvenuto Cellini; of Colombe as of her to whom all his love was given, of Cellini as of him in whom lay all his hope.

Indeed, up to that moment Ascanio had never been concerned with any of the cares or details of existence. Benvenuto lived for both, and Ascanio was content to breathe, to dream of some lovely work of art, and to love Colombe. He was like the fruit which grows upon a sturdy tree, and draws all its life from the tree.

And even now, perilous as was his situation, if he could have seen Benvenuto Cellini at the moment of his arrest, or at the moment of his incarceration, and Benvenuto had said to him, with a warm grasp of his hand.

"Have no fear, Ascanio, for I am watching over you and Colombe," his confidence in the master was so great that, relying upon that promise alone, he would have waited without anxiety for the prison doors to be thrown open, sure that thrown open they would be, in spite of bars and locks.

But he had not seen Benvenuto, and Benvenuto did not know that his cherished pupil, the son of his Stefana, was a prisoner. It would have taken a whole day to carry the intelligence to him at Fontainebleau, assuming that it had occurred to any one to do it, another day to return to Paris, and in two days the enemies of the lovers might gain a long lead upon their defender.

So it was that Ascanio passed the rest of the day and the whole of the night following his arrest without sleep, sometimes pacing back and forth in his cell, sometimes sitting down, and occasionally throwing himself upon the bed, which was provided with white sheets,—a special mark of favor which proved that Ascanio had been particularly commended to the attention of the authorities. During that day and night and the following morning nothing worthy of note occurred, unless it was the regular visit of the jailer to bring his food.

About two o'clock in the afternoon, as nearly as the prisoner could judge by his reckoning of the time, he thought that he heard voices near at hand: it was a dull, indistinct murmur, but evidently caused by the vocal organs of human beings. Ascanio listened and walked toward the point whence the sound seemed to come; it was at one of the corners of his cell. He silently put his ear to the wall and to the ground, and found that the voices apparently came from beneath the floor.

It was evident that he had neighbors who were separated from him only by a thin partition or an equally thin floor. After some two hours the sounds ceased, and all was still once more.

Toward night the noise began again, but this time it was of a different nature. It was not that which would be made by two persons speaking together, but consisted of dull, hurried blows as of some one cutting stone. It came from the same place, did not cease for a second, and seemed to come nearer and nearer.

Absorbed as Ascanio was in his own thoughts, this noise seemed to him deserving of some attention none the less, so he sat with his eyes glued to the spot whence it came. He judged that it must be near midnight, but he did not once think of sleeping, notwithstanding that he had not slept for so many hours.

The noise continued: as it was long past the usual hour for work, it was evidently some prisoner seeking to escape. Ascanio smiled sadly at the thought that the poor devil, who would think for a moment, mayhap, that he was at liberty, would find that he had simply changed his cell.

At last the noise approached so near that Ascanio ran and seized his lamp, and returned with it to the corner; almost at the same moment the earth rose up in that spot, and as it fell away disclosed a human head.

Ascanio uttered an exclamation of wonder, followed by a cry of joy, to which a no less delighted cry made answer. The head belonged to Jacques Aubry.

In an instant, thanks to the assistance rendered by Ascanio to the unexpected visitor who made his appearance in such extraordinary fashion, the two friends were in one another's arms.

As will readily be conceived, the first questions and answers were somewhat incoherent; but at last, after exchanging a few disconnected exclamations, they succeeded in restoring some semblance of order to their thoughts, and in casting some light upon recent events. Ascanio to be sure had almost nothing to say, and everything to learn.

Eventually Aubry told him the whole story: how he had returned to the Hôtel de Nesle simultaneously with Benvenuto; how they had learned almost at the same moment of the arrest of Ascanio and the abduction of Colombe; how Benvenuto had rushed off to his studio like a madman, shouting, "To the casting! to the casting!" and he, Aubry, to the Châtelet. Of what had taken place at the Hôtel de Nesle since that time the student could tell him nothing.

But to the general narrative of the Iliad succeeded the private adventures of Ulysses. Aubry described to Ascanio his disappointment at his failure to get committed to prison; his visit to Gervaise, and her denunciation of him to the lieutenant criminal; his terrible examination, which had no other result than the paltry fine of twenty Paris sous, a result most insulting to the honor of Gervaise; and finally his encounter with Marmagne just as he was beginning to despair of procuring his own incarceration. From that point he related everything that had happened to him up to the moment when, utterly in the dark as to what cell he was about to enter, he had thrust his head through the last crust of earth, and discerned by the light of his lamp his friend Ascanio.

Whereupon the friends once more embraced with great heartiness.

"Now," said Jacques Aubry, "listen to me, Ascanio, for there is no time to lose."

"But first of all," said Ascanio, "tell me of Colombe. Where is Colombe?"

"Colombe? I can't tell you. With Madame d'Etampes, I think."

"With Madame d'Etampes!" cried Ascanio,—"her rival!"

"So what they say of the duchess's love for you is true, is it?"

Ascanio blushed and stammered some unintelligible words.

"Oh, you needn't blush for that!" cried Aubry. "Deuce take me! a duchess! and a duchess who's the king's mistress at that! I should never have any such luck. But let us come back to business."

"Yes," said Ascanio, "let us come back to Colombe."

"Bah! I'm not talking about Colombe. I'm talking about a letter."

"What letter?"

"A letter the Duchesse d'Etampes wrote you."

"Who told you that I have a letter from the Duchesse d'Etampes in my possession?"

"Benvenuto Cellini."

"Why did he tell you that?"

"Because he must have that letter, because it is absolutely essential that he should have it, because I agreed to take it to him, because all I have done was done to get possession of that letter."

"But for what purpose does Benvenuto want the letter?"

"Ah! faith, I've no idea, and it doesn't concern me. He said to me, 'I must have that letter.' I said to him, 'Very good, I will get it for you.' I have had myself put in prison in order to get it; so give it me, and I agree to deliver it to Benvenuto. Well, what's the matter?"