Then, “Oh, merciful Heaven!” I thought, “can it be possible that set in the far haze of a narrow vista of hope, an image—to whose wistful absorption into the Paradise of dreams I have sought to discipline myself—yet yearns to and beckons me from the standpoint of its own material sweetness? I see the smile on its mouth, the lift of its arms; I hear the little cry of welcome wafted to me. My God, the cry!”
All in an instant some shock of association seemed to stun my brain. The cry—the single cry that had issued upon my condemnation in the hall of Justice! Had it not been the very echo of that I had once heard uttered by a poor swineherd fallen into the hands of savages?
I got to my feet in agitation. Now, suddenly it was borne to me that from the moment of issue of that little incisive wail a formless wonder had been germinating in my soul. Carinne present at my trial!—no, no, it was impossible—unless——
“Citizen, the patriots in this corridor send thee greeting.”
I started as if a bullet had flown past my ear. The voice seemed to come from the next cell. I swept the cobwebs from my forehead.
“A thousand thanks!” I cried.
“They have dreamt that the ass cursed the thorough-bred for the niceness of his palate,” went on the voice, “and most heartily they commiserate thee.”
There followed a faint receding sound like laughter and the clapping of hands. I had no idea what to say; but the voice relieved me of the embarrassment.
“May I ask the citizen’s name?”
“I am the Comte de la Muette.”