“Not so much,” answered the Prince softly.
“You must thank this room for that,” said Gomin. “Here there is at least fresh air to breathe, and plenty of light; the good doctors come to see you, and you should find a little comfort in all this.”
At these words the Prince looked up at his jailer with an expression of deepest sadness. His eyes grew dim, then shone suddenly bright again, as a tear trickled through his lashes and rolled down his cheek.
“Alone—always alone!” was his answer. “And my mother has been over there, in that other Tower, all this time!”
He did not know that she, as well as his aunt, Madame Élisabeth, had long since been dragged to the guillotine, and all the warmth and tenderness of which the poor child’s heart was still capable of feeling were fixed on the mother from whose arms he had been so cruelly torn. This childish affection had survived through everything; it was as strong as his will, as deep as his nature. “Love,” says the Holy Scriptures, “is stronger than death,” and this child confirmed the saying. Now, when his mind was dwelling on memories of the past and the recollection of his sufferings, every other thought was forgotten, and his tried and tortured heart had room for no other image than that of his dearly and tenderly beloved mother.
“It is true you are often alone here, and that is sad, to be sure,” continued Gomin; “but then you no longer have the sight of so many bad men around you, or the example of so many wicked actions.”
“Oh, I have seen enough of them,” murmured the child; “but,” he added in a gentler tone, laying his hand on the arm of his kindly jailer and raising his eyes to his face, “I see good people also, and they keep me from being angry with those who are not.”
At this, Gomin said suddenly: “That wicked Careaux you have seen here so often, as deputy, has been arrested, and is now in prison himself.”
The Prince started.
“Careaux?” he repeated. “He did not treat me well. But I am sorry. Is he here?”