“I command the escort,” replied the young hussar, looking away.
“I will be ready for you then, in . . . forty-seven minutes,” said the Duc, his eyes on the watch he had drawn from beneath his pillow. “Perhaps you will be good enough to leave me your torch for the moment. The oil was finished in my lamp last night, and the illumination here is not very good, as you can see.”
The young officer looked round, saw a ring designed for that purpose on the wall, thrust the torch into it, drew himself up, made the captive a magnificent salute, and strode to the door.
Next moment the old gaoler looked in, mildly curious.
“Monsieur Bernard,” said the Duc, who was now sitting on the edge of the bed, “I have a particular favour to ask you. Can you contrive to heat me some shaving water within a quarter of an hour or so? I wish to be presentable this morning.”
“But certainly, only—Monsieur le Duc, what is it, so early? You are being transferred, I gathered?”
“Yes, Bernard—if you like to put it so. And besides the shaving water—and a better light to use it by—is there by chance a priest among the prisoners here, think you?”
“A priest!” exclaimed the old man, taken aback. “A priest . . . I don’t know—I don’t think so. But why do you want a . . . O Monseigneur!—it’s not that!”
“It is indeed,” said Gaston with a little smile. “Not altogether unexpected, my good Bernard.—Well, do your best to get me a priest. I have not much time; only about three-quarters of an hour.”
No, he had not much time. And perhaps it was best. He could not possibly say good-bye to Valentine now. Yesterday had been their farewell after all. Did this hurried execution mean that the First Consul had got wind of to-night’s rescue?