The jailer placed the basket on the table, and looked at his prisoner steadily.
"What do you say?" he said.
"Desire the governor to come to me," added the king, in accents full of calm dignity.
"Come, my boy," said the turnkey, "you have always been very quiet and reasonable, but you are getting vicious, it seems, and I wish you to know it in time. You have broken your chair, and made a great disturbance; that is an offense punishable by imprisonment in one of the lower dungeons. Promise me not to begin over again, and I will not say a word about it to the governor."
"I wish to see the governor," replied the king, still controlling his passion.
"He will send you off to one of the dungeons, I tell you: so take care."
"I insist upon it, do you hear?"
"Ah! ah! your eyes are becoming wild again. Very good! I shall take away your knife."
And the jailer did what he said, quitted the prisoner, and closed the door, leaving the king more astounded, more wretched, and more isolated than ever. It was useless, though he tried it, to make the same noise again on his door, and equally useless that he threw the plates and dishes out of the window; not a single sound was heard in answer. Two hours afterward he could not be recognized as a king, a gentleman, a man, a human being; he might rather be called a madman, tearing the door with his nails, trying to tear up the flooring of his cell, and uttering such wild and fearful cries that the old Bastille seemed to tremble to its very foundations for having revolted against its master.
As for the governor, the jailer did not even think of disturbing him; the turnkeys and the sentinels had reported the occurrence to him, but what was the good of it? were not these madmen common enough in the fortress? and were not the walls still stronger than they? M. de Baisemeaux, thoroughly impressed with what Aramis had told him, and in perfect conformity with the king's order, hoped only that one thing might happen; namely, that the madman Marchiali might be mad enough to hang himself to the canopy of his bed, or to one of the bars of the window. In fact, the prisoner was anything but a profitable investment for M. Baisemeaux, and became more annoying than agreeable to him. These complications of Seldon and Marchiali—the complications, first, of setting at liberty and then imprisoning again, the complications arising from the strong likeness in question—had at last found a very proper dénouement. Baisemeaux even thought he had remarked that D'Herblay himself was not altogether dissatisfied at it.