“You will see him before you go, D'Esmonde? A few minutes is all he asks.”
“Why should I? What bond is there between us now? The tie is loosened forever; besides, he deceived us, Michel,——deceived us in everything.”
“Be it so,” said the other; “but remember that it is the last prayer of one under sentence of death,—the last wish of one who will soon have passed away hence.”
“Why should I go to hear the agonizing entreaties for a mercy that cannot be granted,—the harrowing remorse of a guilty nature?”
“Do not refuse him, D'Esmonde. He clings to this object with a fixed purpose that turns his mind from every thought that should become the hour. In vain I speak to him of the short interval between him and the grave. He neither hears nor heeds me. His only question is, 'Is he coming,——will he come tome?'”
“To lose minutes, when every one of them is priceless, to waste emotions when my heart is already racked and tortured,——why should I do this?” cried D'Esmonde, peevishly.
“Do not refuse me, D'Esmonde,” said Cahill, passionately. “I despair of recalling the miserable man to the thought of his eternal peril till this wish be satisfied.”
“Be it so, then,” said the Abbé, proudly; and he walked along beside his friend in silence.
They traversed the streets without a word spoken. Already D'Esmonde had assumed an air of reserve which seemed to mark the distance between himself and his companion; the thoughtful gravity of his look savored no less of pride than reflection. In such wise did Cahill read his manner, and by a cautious deference appear to accept the new conditions of their intimacy.
“The prisoner has not uttered a word since you were here, sir,” said the jailer, as they entered the gate. “He shows the greatest anxiety whenever the door opens; but, as if disappointed at not seeing whom he expected, relapses at once into his silent reserve.”