PRISON BOAT NUMBER FOUR
Paul Durand was confined in the prison at Tours. The prison was so crowded that he had to be placed in a small room at the top of the building adjoining the quarters occupied by the jailer and his family.
Paul was paler than usual, the result of fatigue from the long, rapid ride from La Haye, but he showed no signs of fear and held up his head bravely as the jailer entered the room. The latter carried a bundle under his arm.
"You are to take these clothes," he said, "go into the adjoining room, and put them on in place of the garments you have on."
Paul took the bundle and went into the next room. For fifteen minutes the jailer sat upon the one chair the room contained, humming and jingling his bunch of keys. Then the door into the outer corridor was thrown open and a large man entered. The jailer sprang to his feet with alacrity.
"Where's the prisoner, Potin?" demanded the newcomer in a harsh voice.
"In the next room, Citizen Lebœuf," replied Potin.
Leb[oe]uf strode toward the door and laid his hand upon the latch.
"I beg your pardon, Citizen Lebœuf, but the prisoner may not be ready to receive you."
"Well, there's no particular reason to be squeamish, is there?" asked Lebœuf, screwing his fat face into a leer.
"If you will wait another minute I think the prisoner will come out," suggested Potin deferentially, jingling his keys.
"Bah, you show your lodgers too much consideration, citizen jailer; you spoil them." Nevertheless Lebœuf allowed his hand to drop from the latch and took a few impatient strides across the floor.
The door opened and, turning, Lebœuf saw Mademoiselle de Rochefort standing on the threshold. She was thinner than when she left La Thierry: but her eyes had lost none of their fire, and she looked Citizen Lebœuf in the face without flinching. His dull eyes kindled while he looked at her some moments without speaking.
"Do you know who I am?" he inquired in his thick, husky voice.
"Yes, I overheard the jailer call you Citizen Lebœuf."
"Right. I am Citizen Lebœuf; and do you know why you have been brought here?"
"A paper was read to me last night which pretended to give some explanation," was her quiet rejoinder.
"In order to save time and expense your trial will take place at Tours, rather than at Paris. I am one of the judges of this district."
Mademoiselle Edmé looked at him with an expression of indifference.
"You do not appear to be afraid."
"I am not afraid," was the quiet reply.
Lebœuf eyed her with evident admiration.
"Why did you put on boy's clothes?" he asked abruptly.
"In order to avoid detection," she answered frankly, coming forward and seating herself in the chair which Potin had vacated upon her entrance. Lebœuf was standing before her, hat in hand, an act of politeness he had not shown to any one for years.
"And you did it well," he said. "You threw them off the track completely. Had it not been for me, your hiding-place would never have been discovered. It was a splendid trick you played upon those bunglers from Paris." And he slapped his thigh in keen appreciation of it, and laughed hoarsely.
"I will take your boy's clothes with me," he continued as he prepared to leave the room, "lest you should be tempted to put them on again from force of habit. We don't want you turning into a boy any more. No, you make too pretty a woman." Then going up to the jailer he said something to him in a low voice which Edmé could not hear. Potin seemed to be remonstrating feebly. Lebœuf scowled, and from his manner appeared to insist upon the point at issue.
"Are you sure you are not afraid?" he said again abruptly to Edmé as he went to the door and stood with one hand on the latch looking back into the room.
"No!"
He looked at her admiringly.
"Remember you are a woman now and have a perfect right to be afraid; also to kick and scream when anything is the matter."
Edmé made no reply.
"In case you should ever feel afraid," he said significantly, "just send for Lebœuf, that's all," and with this he left the room.
Edmé remained in Potin's charge for two days. The jailer treated her with great consideration, and she congratulated herself upon having fallen into such kindly hands. She momentarily expected to be summoned before the Tribunal. She did not know what the result would be; but she looked forward to her trial with impatience. In any event it would end the suspense in which she was living.
On the afternoon of the second day Potin entered her room, accompanied by one of his deputies.
"You must prepare to go with this man, citizeness," said the little jailer.
"Has the Tribunal sent for me? she inquired.
"Not yet. But you are to be transferred to another prison."
"I prefer to stay here," she said. "Cannot you ask them to allow me to remain?"
"You have no choice in the matter, nor have I; I have only my orders."
"From whom did the order come? From that man Lebœuf who came here the other day?" she demanded quickly.
"I am not at liberty to say," replied Potin, shifting his feet uneasily.
"Are you forbidden to tell me where I am to be taken?" was her next question.
"To prison boat Number Four. The city prisons are so full," he continued, in answer to her look of surprised inquiry, "that great numbers have to be lodged in the boats anchored in the river. Number Four is one of the largest," he added as if by way of consolation.
In company of the deputy Edmé was conducted to the floating prison on the Loire. As they stepped over the side they were met by a little round-shouldered man with splay feet. His face was wrinkled and brown almost to blackness; his dress showed that he had a fondness for bright colors, as he wore a purple shirt with a crimson sash, a bright yellow neckcloth, and a red cap. The deputy turned over his charge to him, received his quittance, and went away.
Edmé was conducted to a room in the stern of the vessel. It was a small room and to her surprise she found it furnished comfortably, almost luxuriously. On a table in the centre stood a carafe of wine and a basket of sweet biscuit. Two or three chairs and a couch completed the equipment of the room. At the extreme end, the porthole had been enlarged into a window which looked out over the river. This window was closed by wooden bars. Otherwise the place looked more like the comfortable quarters of some ship's officer than a jail.
"Is this where I am to remain?" she asked of her new jailer.
The man nodded and withdrew, locking the door after him.
Edmé threw herself into a chair. It was intended that she should at least be comfortable while in prison, and this thought helped to keep up her spirits. She rose, took a glass of wine and some of the biscuit, and then after finishing this refreshment, feeling fatigued, she lay down upon the couch and fell asleep.
It was nearly dark when she awoke. Lying on the couch she could see the dying light of the short December day shining feebly in at the window, reflected by the metal of a swinging lamp over the table. As she lay there she became aware of a noise that had evidently awakened her. It was the sound of wailing and lamentation, accompanied by the creaking of timber and the swash of water.
Rising from the bed she went to the window and looked out over the river.
Going down the stream were two other prison boats. They were scarcely fifty yards away and proceeded slowly with the current, the water lapping against their black sides. They were old vessels, and creaked and groaned as if they were about to fall apart from very rottenness. From between their decks came the sound of human voices raised in cries of fear, despair, and lamentation; all mingled in a strange, horrible medley, which, borne over the water by the sighing night wind, struck a chill into Edmé's heart.
The vessels, stealing down the river with their sailless masts against the evening sky, looked like phantom ships conveying cargoes of unrestful, tortured spirits into darkness. The sight so fascinated Edmé that she stood watching them until they drifted out of sight and the cries of those on board grew fainter and fainter in the distance. So absorbed had she been as not to hear the lock click in the door and a man enter the room. She only became aware of his presence on hearing a heavy sigh just behind her, and turning her head she saw Lebœuf's heavy face at her shoulder. She gave a startled cry and stepped nearer the window.
"It is a sad sight, is it not," he remarked, with a look of sympathy ill-suited to the leer in his eyes, "and one that might easily frighten the strongest of us."
"It is your sudden appearance, when I thought I was entirely alone, that startled me," replied Edmé, regaining her composure with an effort. "I was so intent upon looking at those boats that I did not hear you come in."
"I see you didn't. I may be bulky, but I'm active and can move quietly," and he gave a chuckle.
Edmé thought him even more repulsive than at the time of his visit to the prison. His face seemed coarser and more inflamed, and his eyes, so dull and heavy before, shone as if animated by drink.
"Where are they taking those poor people?" she asked; "for I presume those are prison boats."
"They are," was the reply in a thick utterance. "Just like this. Are you sure that you want to know where they are being taken?"
"Would I have asked you otherwise?"
"Are you sure you won't faint?"
Edmé gave a shrug of contempt. She saw that he was trying to work upon her fears, and felt her spirit rise in antagonism.
The look of admiration that he gave her was more offensive than his pretended sympathy. Leaning forward he whispered, "They are going down the river for about two miles. There they will get rid of their troublesome freight and return empty."
"What do you mean?" asked Edmé. "Where do they land the prisoners?"
"They don't land them, they water them," and he gave a low, inward laugh. "They drown every prisoner on board. Tie them together in couples, man and woman, and tumble them overboard by the score."
Edmé gave a cry of horror. "It is too horrible to be true. I don't believe it!"
"Why not?" asked Lebœuf; "drowning is an easy death, and every one of them has been fairly and honestly condemned. This boat is to follow in its turn. Every prisoner here has looked upon the sun for the last time, though not one of them knows just when he is to die."
The idea of such wholesale murder seemed so utterly impossible to her that in her mind she set down Lebœuf's whole account as a fiction of his drink-besotted brain, called up to frighten her. Yet at the moment when she turned from him in disgust to look out of the window, she saw that their own vessel had begun to move slowly through the water.
"We have started," said Lebœuf, as if he were mentioning a matter of the smallest consequence.
"You say that every one upon this boat is a condemned person," said Edmé quietly, repressing her terror with an effort.
Lebœuf nodded.
"But I am not. I have not even had a hearing."
"No?" exclaimed Lebœuf in a tone of surprise. "Then those jailers have made another mistake."
Edmé advanced toward him one step, and in a tone which made the huge man draw back, said:—
"I was brought here by your order!"
"Oh, no, I knew nothing of the change. It was that villain Potin."
"I was brought here by your order," she repeated. "I demand that I be taken where I can have a trial."
"Potin has made another mistake," was all Lebœuf would vouchsafe in reply.
"If there has been any mistake, it is yours. I demand that you set it right."
"It is too late!"
"There must be some one aboard this vessel who has the power to do it, if you have not. I will go and appeal for aid," and she took a step toward the door.
Lebœuf interposed his bulky body between her and the means of exit; closed and locked the door on the inside.
"I will cry aloud. Some one will hear me," she said in desperation.
"Who will hear you above all that noise?" he inquired tersely.
The prisoners on the boat, now fully aware that their time of execution had come, were crying out against their fate,—some praying for mercy, some calling down the maledictions of heaven upon their butchers, while others wept silently.
"Merciful Virgin, protect me. I have lost all hope," cried Edmé, turning from Lebœuf and sinking despairingly upon her knees.
"Ah, now you are frightened!" exclaimed Lebœuf, "admit that you are frightened!"
"If it is any satisfaction to have succeeded in terrifying a woman unable to defend herself, I will not rob you of the pleasure, but know that it is not death, but the manner of it, that I fear."
"But you are afraid; you have confessed to it at last, and now Lebœuf will see that they do not harm you." He gave a grim chuckle as if he enjoyed having won his point. Rapidly pushing the table to one side, turning back the rug that covered the floor, he stooped; and to Edmé's astonished gaze lifted up a trap door in the floor of the cabin. Edmé drew back from the black hole at her feet.
"It is large enough to afford you air for several hours," Lebœuf said. "By that time I will get you out again. Quick, descend the steps."
Edmé, fearing further treachery, drew back in alarm. "I prefer to meet my fate here."
Lebœuf struck a light and by the rays of the lamp a ladder was revealed.
"I tell you it is certain death to remain here fifteen minutes longer. Even I could not save you then. The more they throw into the water the more frenzied they become for other victims. They will ransack the entire boat; but they won't find you down there. Lebœuf alone knows this place. Quick! If you would live to see the sun rise to-morrow, go down the steps of that ladder."
He took her by the shoulder to assist in the descent. His touch was so distasteful to her that she threw off his hand and went down the ladder unaided. "Make not the slightest sound, whatever you may hear going on up here above you, and wait patiently until I come to release you."
With these words the door was shut down and Lebœuf went out and up to the deck alone.
The vessel had reached a point in the river just outside the city. Here the stream narrowed and ran swiftly between the banks.
The sky was windy; and between the rifts of the high-banked clouds the moon shone fitfully. To the east lay the city of Tours, its spires standing out in sharp silhouette against the sky. On the river bank the wind swept over the dead, dry grass with a mournful, swaying sound and rattled the rotting halyards of the old hulk, which with one small sail set in the bow to keep it steady, made slowly down the river with the current, hugging the left bank as if fearful of trusting itself to the swifter depths beyond.
A rusty chain rasped through the hawse-hole, and the vessel swung at anchor.
In a small and close compartment in the ship's depths, totally without light, and with her nerves wrought upon by Lebœuf's appalling story, Edmé could only guess at what was happening above her head.
She knew that something terrible was taking place. She could hear a confusion of cries and trampling of feet; of hoarse shouts and commands; and she pictured in her imagination scenes quite as horrible as were actually taking place above her. In every wave that splashed against the vessel's side she could see the white face of a struggling, drowning creature, and every sound upon the vessel was the despairing death-note of a fresh victim. Through it all she could see the large face of Lebœuf leering at her with his bleary eyes. To have exchanged one fate for a worse one was to have gained nothing, and in her mental agony she almost envied those who a short time ago had been struggling helplessly in the hands of their executioners, and whose bodies now were quietly sleeping in the waters of the flowing river.
A quiet fell upon the vessel. The last cry had been uttered, the last command given, and no sound reached Edmé's ears but the soft plash of the water as it struck under the stern of the boat.
Then the remembrance of Lebœuf's face and look became still more vivid. She feared him in spite of all her courage; in spite of her pride that was greater than her courage, she feared him. The knowledge that he was aware of his power and took delight in it made the thought that she would soon have to face him there alone more terrible than her dread of the worst of deaths.
A footfall sounded on the floor above her head. That it was not Lebœuf's heavy tread, Edmé was certain. Rather than fall into his hands again she would trust herself to the mercies of the worst ruffian among the executioners, and she struck with her clenched hand a succession of quick knocks upon the trap.
The footsteps ceased, and in the stillness that followed Edmé called out to the man above her and told him where to find the opening. In another instant the door was lifted up and she came up into the cabin.
"Kill me," she cried out; "throw me into the river if it be your pleasure, but I implore you, do not let"—
The man's hand closed over her mouth, and lifting her in his arms he carried her across the cabin. The room was dark; either Lebœuf had put out the light when he left, or the newcomer had extinguished it, but Edmé saw that he bore her toward the window from which the lattice had been removed. She closed her eyes to meet the end. She felt herself swiftly lifted through the window, and then instead of water her feet struck a firm substance.
"Steady for one moment," said a voice in her ear as she opened her eyes in bewilderment to find herself standing on the seat of a small skiff, a man supporting her by the arm. Her face was on a level with the window, and looking back into the cabin she saw a light at the further end, as the bulky form of Lebœuf appeared at the door, lantern in hand, his heavy countenance made more ugly by an expression of surprise and rage.
Voices were heard in hot dispute, then came two pistol shots so close together as to seem almost one. A figure leaped through the smoke that poured from the window, and Edmé from her seat in the skiff's bow where she had been swung with little ceremony, saw a man cut the line, while the other bent over his oars and made the small craft fly away from the vessel, straight for the opposite shore. The man who had leaped from the window took his place silently in the stern. Placing one hand on the tiller, he turned and looked intently over his shoulder at the dark outline of the prison ship, which was rapidly receding into the gloom.
His hat had fallen off, and in the uncertain light Edmé saw for the first time that it was Robert Tournay.
Before a word could be uttered by any of them, a tongue of flame shot out from the vessel behind them, followed by a loud and sharp report. The dash of spray that swept over the boat told that the shot had struck the water close by them.
The man at the oars shook the water from his eyes and redoubled his efforts. "Head her down the river a little," he said.
"But the carriage is at least two miles above here," replied Tournay.
"No matter," answered Gaillard. "The shore here is too steep. We must land a little further down."
Tournay altered their course and steered the boat slantingly across the current.
They were now nearing the right-hand shore, which rose abruptly from the river to a height of some twenty feet. The current here was swifter, and the greatest caution had to be exercised. A second flash flamed out from the prison ship, a sound of crashing wood, and the little skiff seemed to leap into the air and then slide from under their feet, while the icy water of the Loire rushed in Edmé's ears,—strangling her and dragging her down, until it seemed as if the water's weight would crush her. Then she began to come upward with increasing velocity until at last, when she thought never to reach the surface, she felt her head rise above the water and saw the cloudy, threatening sky, which seemed to reel above her as she gasped for breath.
Another head shot to the surface by her side, and she felt herself sustained, to sink no more. The words: "Place your right hand upon my shoulder and keep your face turned down the stream away from the current," came to her ears as if in a dream. Instinctively she obeyed. With a few rapid strokes Tournay reached the shore. The bank overhung the river and under it the water ran rapidly.
With only one arm free he could not draw himself and Edmé up the steep incline. Twice he succeeded in catching a tuft of grass or projecting root, and each time the force of the current broke his hold upon it, and twirling them round like straws carried them on down the stream.
Gaillard, who had been struck by a splinter on the forehead, was at first stunned by the blow, and without struggling was swept fifty yards down the river. The cold water brought him back to consciousness, and he struck out for the shore. He noticed, some hundred yards below, a place where the river swept to the south and where the bank was considerably lower. Allowing himself to be borne along by the current, he took an occasional stroke to carry him in toward the shore, and made the point easily.
Drawing himself from the water by some overhanging bushes, he shook himself like a wet dog, and sitting on the river's edge proceeded to bind up his injured eye, while with the other he looked anxiously along the river-side. Suddenly he bent down and caught at an object in the water.
"Let me take the girl," he said quickly. "Now your hand on this bush—there!" And with a swift motion he drew Edmé up, and Tournay, relieved of her weight, swung himself to their side.
For a short time they lay panting on the bank. Gaillard was the first to get upon his feet.
"We shall perish of cold here," he exclaimed, springing up and down to warm his benumbed blood, while the wet ends of his yellow neckerchief flapped about his forehead.
"Can you walk, Mademoiselle de Rochefort?"
Edmé placed her hand upon her side to still the sharp shooting pain, and answered "Yes."
"Good; the road is only a few rods from here, but we must follow it at least two miles to the west."
"I shall be able to do it!"
As she uttered these words the pain in her side increased. She felt her strength leave her, and but for the support of Tournay's arm she would have fallen to the ground.
"She has fainted," cried Tournay in consternation.
"No," she remonstrated feebly, struggling with the numbness that was overpowering her. "It is the cold. Let me rest for a moment; I shall be better soon."
"Mademoiselle, you must walk, else you will die of cold," exclaimed Tournay. "Take her by the arm, Gaillard."
Instead of complying with the request, Gaillard stood with head bent forward peering up the road into the night gloom.
"Gaillard! man, do you not hear me?"
"The carriage! I hear the rattle of its wheels," cried Gaillard joyfully. "Agatha can always be depended upon to do the right thing at the right moment!"
"Hurry to meet her," cried Tournay; "tell her we are here!"
Gaillard sprang rapidly forward, shouting as he ran.
"Courage but a little moment longer," whispered Tournay, and taking Edmé in his arms he followed Gaillard as fast as his burden permitted.
She had not entirely lost consciousness, but cold and fatigue had combined to enervate and render her powerless of motion.
In a half swoon she felt herself carried she knew not whither. She felt Tournay's strong arms about her, and a sense of security came over her as she faintly realized that each step took her further away from the dreaded Lebœuf.
Tournay hastened toward the carriage. The wind swept freshly over the marshes, and he held Edmé close as if to shield her from the cold. Her hair blew back into his face, covering his eyes and touching his lips. As he felt her soft tresses against his cheek his heart throbbed so that he forgot cold, fatigue, and danger.... Where they blinded him he gently put the locks aside with one hand in a caressing manner and looked tenderly down into the white face pressed against his wet coat.
The sound of wheels upon the frozen road came nearer. Lights flashed around a turn in the road, and Tournay staggered to the carriage door as the vehicle drew up suddenly.
"Hurrah!" cried Gaillard from the box, where he had taken the reins from the driver. "We have won!"