When the grey and red mass of Port-Royal Abbey rose before him, his heart beat wildly. It was in one of those buildings, now transformed into a prison, that his mother and his fiancée were immured! It was within those walls that they suffered, that they wept bitter tears in their utter despair, thinking surely of him, wondering what had been his fate!
And the reality appeared even more desperate now! In his haste to reach them Olivier had not considered how to gain admittance to the prison. In a moment all the difficulty of such an undertaking rushed on his mind, as he stood alone and helpless before those massive walls. Trying to solve the problem, he devised schemes only to discard them as impracticable. He no longer scanned the windows, for fear of attracting attention. He suspected a spy in every passer-by. Once he even tried to assume a smile, thinking his mental agony might be seen on his face. He put on an air of indifference, making a détour of the prison, carelessly examining everything to avert suspicion. At last, thoroughly worn out, he moved away, vaguely hoping to find a happy inspiration in some lonely spot, where he could be more master of himself.
To whom could he turn for assistance? He knew no one. All the friends of his family, formerly settled in Paris, were now either abroad or in prison, if they had not perished on the scaffold or in the war. And then he thought of the Englishman Vaughan. Where was he to be found? In prison, perhaps, arrested with the others in the forest. Everything was possible. A sudden idea flashed across his mind, an idea which, however, he quickly rejected, judging it imprudent. He had wandered into the Rue des Lions, the neighbourhood of his grandfather's town house, and had thought of Benoit, the porter. Was he still there? He shrugged his shoulders despairingly, just remembering that the mansion was now the property of the State. The neighbours might also recognise him, and he would compromise himself uselessly.
Thus wandering, Olivier found himself back again in the Rue du Rocher, in front of his lodgings, though he could not tell by what way he had come. Going up to his room, he locked himself in to rest a while. His head swam, and he realised for the first time that he had eaten nothing since the previous day, so he called down to ask if he could have something to eat. As it was just breakfast-time they sent up some eggs, a cutlet, and some fruit. He ate the eggs, tasted the cutlet, but did not finish it. Then, as a reaction set in, he sunk into an armchair and slept.
When Olivier awoke it was four o'clock. He started up quickly, vexed at having lost his day, and hurried downstairs. On the ground floor the concierge stopped him.
"I want a word with you," he said. "You are really the citoyen Germain, are you not?"
"Yes," answered Olivier, already apprehensive, and wondering what was coming.
"Well, I was going to say you haven't shown me your passport. I didn't ask you last night, as it was so late."
"But I have not any," said Olivier, taken back. Then, on second thoughts, he added—
"That is to say, I left it in the country."