At Orléans the necessity for some change of air, and for taking some exercise, caused the younger people, on certain days of the week, when permitted, to have recourse to the vast courtyard of the prison. Fashion here reigned as she had been wont to do at the Tuileries. Here were given concerts al fresco; and les graces became the favourite game of the hour. It even occasionally happened—for Love, like Virtue, will make his way into strange places—that affections were aroused, and attachments between young hearts worthy of a purer locality sprang up, throwing a charm over the wearisomeness of captivity. Death stood on permanent guard, looking over the wall of that vast prison; and his gaunt, long arm often plunged into the crowd below, and dragged up a victim. But each individual there, caring little for the teaching of the past or the prospects of the future, endured and yet forgot everything. Each considered every fellow-captive exposed to death, but none was without hope for himself. Like the selfish Neapolitans, who, when they see a neighbour borne to the grave, shrug their shoulders, and cry, “Salute a noi!” so did the Orléans prisoners, on losing an old companion, bury sympathy for the departed in congratulations at their own escape.
It was early in a summer’s afternoon when Madame de Charry, with Edmond, entered the cell whose oldest occupant and recognized proprietor was the Countess de Bohun, a lady who had once borne the honoured name of De Girardin. A large party was assembled, and, save the locality, the hour, and the absence of lights, there was little to distinguish it from a party in the Chaussée d’Antin. Some were at cards, some were looking at pictures, some were circulating scandal, and a few were sipping eau sucrée, heightened as to flavour with a little capillaire. François Vouillet, the son of a chair-mender, was there playing the guitar. His poverty had not saved him from the suspicion of holding aristocratic opinions, nor had his misfortune procured for him any commiseration from the aristocrats. He attended among them as a hired musician, and he played for the dinner which he could not purchase. The appearance of the new-comers interrupted the song, for a shout of Vive le Roi hailed the arrival of Edmond, and the most courteous welcomings that of his companion. M. de Bohun, who was attired in a flannel dressing-gown, and the only individual in the cell not in full dress, advanced to Madame de Charry and gallantly kissed her on the brow.
“You are becoming Republican in your tastes,” said that exquisite lady, as she pointed to the flannel robe de chambre.
“Madame,” said the Count, laughing, “I am twice as aristocratic as the Prince de Ligne, the very quintessence of a knight and a nobleman. It is not two years since we visited him at Vienna, and he received the Countess and myself in no other dress than his shirt.”
“Oh!” exclaimed all the ladies at once.
“It is true,” exclaimed Madame de Bohun, corroboratively, “and yet short of the truth: he had one arm withdrawn from the sleeve, and within it he took my own, and led me into the apartment of his young daughter-in-law.”
It was within an hour of the evening period for locking up, when the wife of Balthazar entered the room with but scant attention to ceremony, and telling Edmond as she passed him, that she had just well-beaten her husband for his cruelty towards the “little king” of the prison, she advanced towards Madame de Charry and whispered something in her ear. With all her courage, the fair creature slightly trembled; but she arose, begged the Chevalier Fabien to play out her cards, and promised speedily to return. An inquiring look was directed to her by all the company, but she gave it no reply, either by word or gesture. She left the cell, accompanied by the gaoler’s wife, and followed by Edmond. The latter, in speechless fear, saw her descend to the courtyard between two gendarmes. The wicket was locked upon him, but from the window he beheld her rudely pushed into a building in which the revolutionary tribunal was wont to hold its bloody sittings.
The “little king” burst into tears, a weakness of which he became half-ashamed when he felt the arm of the gaoler’s wife passed round his neck, and heard words of condolence fall from the lips of the subduer of the prison tyrant.
From this period they stood in utter silence for a quarter of an hour, at the end of which time they saw Madame de Charry brought out from the building and made to enter a cart, which was driven and backed up to the steps expressly to receive her. At the sound of a broken glass and a boy’s scream, her face, pale and dignified, was turned to the window, through which Edmond had thrust his head. She smiled the sweet smile of a dying saint, and the radiancy of a martyr seemed to glow around her as she pointed to heaven, and with her eyes still fixed on the boy, uttered the words, “Espérance! Adieu!” In another moment the cart received two more victims, and, with its load of courageous misery, soon after disappeared beneath the archway that led to the exterior of the prison. Before the chimes of the cathedral had struck the next quarter, three lives had been sacrificed, and Monsieur de Fabien had just won the game with his cousin’s cards.