The torch he held, conflicting with the daylight from the high window, showed him the man he had come for fast asleep on the little bed in the furthest corner. He went over to him, stood looking down at him a second or two, and then, with what looked like hesitation, put out a hand to wake him. But at that moment, roused by the light, the prisoner stirred.
(2)
Gaston had dreamt much that night, dreams commingled of sweet and sinister. Nearly always the menhirs had been in them, the Allée des Vieilles where Valentine had been miraculously restored to him, but they were strangely mixed with visions of Mirabel, where he and she had parted. He stood once more among the old stones, but she was not there; he was to meet her, he knew, at Mirabel, and the idea was sweet. Yet somehow the dream was sinister. . . .
And now—he was fully awake on the instant, in the fashion of a soldier and a commander. His first thought was—Hyde de Neuville . . . they had put forward the time . . . here was the pseudo-Republican officer he was to expect. He looked up at the hussar for a second or two—and all that fell away from him for ever. A man in peril is swift of apprehension. This officer was genuine.
“You are an early visitor, sir,” he said, raising himself on his elbow. “I may guess, may I not, that you do not come at this hour on any very agreeable errand?”
“General,” said the young man, speaking at length for the first time since he had entered the prison, “my errand is hateful. I . . . I am ashamed of the uniform I wear—but as long as I wear it I must obey. . . . Will you read that, Monsieur le Duc?” He held out, not the order he had shown to the guichetier, but another, and brought the torch a little nearer.
Gaston took the paper, and, still leaning on one elbow, studied it, and the vehement “Bonaparte” at the bottom, with the marks of the splutter of the pen. His eyebrows went up a trifle, but no other change came over his face.
“A little sudden,” he observed. “But after all . . . What time do you wish me to be ready?”
“At seven o’clock, General. It is now ten minutes after six.”
The Duc de Trélan returned the warrant. “The First Consul is somewhat given to sudden impulses,” he remarked. “As he grows older he will find that they are generally to be regretted. But I think that, after all, I misjudge him; for this was intended from the first. I have about fifty minutes then. Would you be so good, Monsieur, as to see if they could find me a priest while I am dressing; there may be one in captivity in the Temple.—No, do not give yourself the trouble; if old Bernard is there I will ask him myself. And you, Monsieur le Capitaine—shall I see you again?”