A billet de hanque for three thousand francs was folded in the note, and fell to the ground as I read it.
“Parbleu! I'll not ask you to tear this, though,” said the jailer, as he handed it to me. “And now let me see you destroy the other.”
I read and re-read the few lines over and over, some new meaning striking me at each word, while I asked myself from whom it could have come. Was it De Beauvais? or dare I hope it was one dearest to me of all the world? Who, then, in the saddest hour of my existence, could step between me and my sorrow, and leave hope as my companion in the dreary solitude of a prison?
“Again I say be quick,” cried the jailer; “my being here so long may be remarked. Tear it at once.”
He followed with an eager eye every morsel of paper as it fell from my hand, and only seemed at ease as the last dropped to the ground; and then, without speaking a word, unlocked the door and withdrew.
The shipwrecked sailor, clinging to some wave-tossed raft, and watching with bloodshot eye the falling day, where no friendly sail has once appeared, and at last, as every hope dies out one by one within him, he hears a cheer break through the plashing of the sea, calling on him to live, may feel something like what were my sensations, as once more alone in my cell I thought of the friendly voice that could arouse me from my cold despair, and bid me hope again.
What a change came over the world to my eyes! The very cell itself no longer seemed dark and dreary; the faint sunlight that fell through the narrow window seemed soft and mellow; the voices I heard without struck me not as dissonant and harsh; the reckless gayety I shuddered at, the dark treachery I abhorred,—I could now compassionate the one and openly despise the other; and it was with that stout determination at my heart that I sallied forth into the garden, where still the others lingered, waiting for the drum that summoned them to dinner.
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE CHOUANS
When night came, and all was silent in the prison, I sat down to write my letter to the minister. I knew enough of such matters to be aware that brevity is the great requisite; and therefore, without any attempt to anticipate my accusation by a defence of my motives, I simply but respectfully demanded the charges alleged against me, and prayed for the earliest and most speedy investigation into my conduct. Such were the instructions of my unknown friend, and as I proceeded to follow them, their meaning at once became apparent to me. Haste was recommended, evidently to prevent such explanations and inquiries into my conduct as more time might afford. My appearance at the château might still be a mystery to them, and one which might remain unfathomable if any plausible reason were put forward. And what more could be laid to my charge? True, the brevet of colonel found on my person; but this I could with truth allege had never been accepted by me. They would scarcely condemn me on such testimony, unsupported by any direct charge; and who could bring such save De Beauvais? Flimsy and weak as such pretexts were, yet were they enough in my then frame of mind to support my courage and nerve my heart. But more than all I trusted in the sincere loyalty I felt for the cause of the Government and its great chief,—a sentiment which, however difficult to prove, gave myself that inward sense of safety which only can flow from strong convictions of honesty. “It may so happen,” thought I, “that circumstances may appear against me; but I know and feel my heart is true and firm, and even at the worst, such a consciousness will enable me to bear whatever may be my fortune.”