The next morning my altered manner and happier look excited the attention of the others, who by varions endeavors tried to fathom the cause or learn any particulars of my fate; but in vain, for already I was on my guard against even a chance expression, and, save on the most commonplace topics, held no intercourse with any. Far from being offended at my reserve, they seemed rather to have conceived a species of respect for one whose secrecy imparted something of interest to him; and while they tried, by the chance allusion to political events and characters, to sound me, I could see that, though baffled, they by no means gave up the battle.
As time wore on, this half-persecution died away; each day brought some prisoner or other amongst us, or removed some of those we had to other places of confinement, and thus I became forgotten in the interest of newer events. About a week after my entrance we were walking as usual about the gardens, when a rumor ran that a prisoner of great consequence had been arrested the preceding night and conveyed to the Temple; and various surmises were afloat as to who he might be, or whether he should be au secret or at large. While the point was eagerly discussed, a low door from the house was opened, and the jailer appeared, followed by a large, powerful man, whom in one glance I remembered as the chief of the Vendean party at the château, and the same who effected his escape in the Bois de Boulogne. He passed close to where I stood, his arm folded on his breast; his clear blue eye bent calmly on me, yet never by the slightest sign did he indicate that we had ever met before. I divined at once his meaning, and felt grateful for what I guessed might be a measure necessary to my safety.
“I tell you,” said a shrivelled old fellow, in a worn dressing-gown and slippers, who held the “Moniteur” of that day in his hand, “I tell you it is himself; and see, his hand is wounded, though he does his best to conceal the bandage in his bosom.”
“Well, well! read us the account; where did it occur?” cried two or three in a breath.
The old man seated himself on a bench, and having arranged his spectacles and unfolded the journal, held out his hand to proclaim silence, when suddenly a wild cheer broke from the distant part of the garden, whither the newly arrived prisoner had turned his steps; a second, louder, followed, in which the wild cry of “Vive le Roi!” could be distinctly heard.
“You hear them,” said the old man; “was I right now? I knew it must be him.”
“Strange enough, too, he should not be au secret,” said another; “the generals have never been suffered to speak to any one since their confinement. But read on, let us hear it.”
“'On yesterday morning,'” said the little man, reading aloud, “'Picot, the servant of George, was arrested; and although every endeavor was made to induce him to confess where his master was—'”
“Do you know the meaning of that phrase, Duchos?” said a tall, melancholy-looking man, with a bald head. “That means the torture; thumb screws and flint vices are the mode once more: see here.”
As he spoke he undid a silk handkerchief that was wrapped around his wrist, and exhibited a hand that seemed actually smashed into fragments; the bones were forced in many places through the flesh, which hung in dark-colored and blood-stained pieces about.