“Oh, yes, I have been told so,” I answered, “but I do not believe it.”
She raised her head and looked at me fixedly.
“You mean you will escape?” she asked, after a moment.
I nodded and smiled again.
“Oh, but you do not know,” she cried. “A man could not escape from here if he had the strength of a hundred men.”
“Nevertheless,” I began, but the hoarse voice of Mère Fouchon interrupted me.
“La Bancale,” she cried, “come here at once, and be sure to bolt the door after you.”
“I must go,” she said. “I will do what I can, Monsieur.”
I watched her as she went. So she was called La Bancale, the bandy-legged, and my eyes were wet with tears as I thought of what her life had been—of what it yet must be. She would do all she could, she had said, and yet what could she accomplish? She was so frail, so weak. Still, for a moment, I felt more hopeful. To a drowning man, even a straw is welcome. Besides, she was not without her shrewdness—witness how she had doubled on her tracks to prevent pursuit, and had finally evaded her pursuer. Or was it really a trap that had been set for me, and into which I had walked blindly?
The problem was too great a one for my wit to solve, for my head was paining me again severely. It was no light blow that had been given me, and I wondered that it had not crushed my skull. I could feel that the blood had soaked through my hair and dried about my face, but I had no way of removing it. The air of the cellar seemed foul and close; I was shivering with the cold and damp. At last, in sheer exhaustion, my head fell forward and I slept.