The water ran through my veins like wine, and I arose to my feet, strong and invigorated. My eyes had grown somewhat accustomed to the darkness, and I could dimly perceive the wall stretching away on either side. And for the first time, I remembered—the search through the night, the opening of the door, Nanette’s scream for help, the shadow on the wall—it flashed through my brain like lightning through a summer sky—I must escape, I must keep cool—and with set teeth I choked back the trembling that would have seized me.
The spasm passed, and with my fingers I carefully examined the iron belt about my waist. It was, I judged, three inches wide by half an inch in thickness. The ends, which overlapped, were provided with a series of teeth, which fitted together and were clamped into place by a lock. The ends had been pushed past each other until the belt was fitted close to my waist. I tried to work it down over my hips, but soon perceived that this could not be done. Clearly, if I ever left the place, it would be with the belt about me.
I turned my attention to the hasp at the back. It was heavy and riveted through the belt. I examined the chain link by link, but found none that showed a sign of weakness. A heavy iron ring held it to the wall. How the ring was secured I could not tell, but I exerted all my strength against it and found I could not move it a hair’s-breadth. Certainly my captors had overlooked no detail that would tend to make me more secure. What fiendish ingenuity had devised this place of torture!
As I sat down again with a sigh of discouragement, I heard a sharp click as of a spring released, a heavy door creaked back, and a woman appeared carrying a lantern. At a glance I recognized Mère Fouchon. Her face was illumined by a devilish joy as she looked about and saw me sitting there.
“Ho, ho,” she laughed, “can this be the gallant who was going to spit me on his sword only the other morning?”
I did not answer, and she placed her lantern on the ground and sat down on a heap of dirt opposite me, but well out of reach, and rocked herself back and forth, and chuckled. I felt myself choking with rage.
“And the girl, too,” she continued, after a moment, “the girl with the dark eyes and little red mouth. She is called Nanette, is she not? What a shame that she should be crying her eyes out in the room just overhead!”
I ground my teeth together at the thought of my own impotence.
“Ah, curse!” she cried, “curse your heart out! Christ, how it gladdens my soul! Ho, ho!” and she rocked back and forth in a paroxysm of mirth.
“Come,” I said at last, mastering my anger as best I could. “Why are you doing all this?”