Besides, what an opportunity it afforded for the exercise of his sang-froid, his diplomatic talent, and the finesse upon which he prided himself!
It was necessary to make his father his dupe. That was an easy task.
It was necessary to impose upon the credulity of the Marquis de Courtornieu. This was a difficult task, yet he succeeded.
But poor Chanlouineau could not conceive of such contradictions, and he was consumed with anxiety.
Willingly would he have consented to be put to the torture before receiving his death-blow, if he might have been allowed to follow Marie-Anne in her undertakings.
What was she doing? How could he ascertain?
A dozen times during the evening he called his guards, under every possible pretext, and tried to compel them to talk with him. He knew very well that these men could be no better informed on the subject than he was himself, that he could place no confidence in their reports—but that made no difference.
The drums beat for the evening roll-call, then for the extinguishment of lights—after that, silence.
Standing at the window of his cell, Chanlouineau concentrated all his faculties in a superhuman effort of attention.
It seemed to him if the baron regained his liberty, he would be warned of it by some sign. Those whom he had saved owed him, he thought, this slight token of gratitude.