“So it might, but for our stove. But then our ears would have been frozen up, too. We should have been underground by this time—which they say we are not now, though it is hard, sometimes to believe them. However, we shall hear something by-and-by that will drown the drip. Among these mountains, there must be thunder. In the summer, Mars Plaisir, we may hear thunder.”
“In the summer!” exclaimed Mars Plaisir, covering his face with his hands.
“That is, not you, but I. I hope they will let you out long before the summer.”
“Does your Excellency hope so?” cried Mars Plaisir, springing to his feet.
“Certainly, my poor fellow. The happiest news I expect ever to hear is that you are to be released: and this news I do expect to hear. They will not let you go home, to tell where I am; but they will take you out of this place.”
“Oh, your Excellency! if you think so, would your Excellency be pleased to speak for me—to ask the Commandant to let me out? If you will tell him that my rheumatism will not let me sleep—I do not want to go home—I do not want to leave your Excellency, except for your Excellency’s good. I would say all I could for you, and kneel to the First Consul; and, if they would not set you free, I would—” Here his voice faltered, but he spoke the words—“I would come back into your Excellency’s service in the summer—when I had got cured of my rheumatism. If you would speak a word to the Commandant!”
“I would, if I were not sure of injuring you by doing so. Do you not see that nothing is to be granted us that we ask for? Speak not another word of liberty, and you may have it. Ask for it, and you are here for life—or for my life. Remember!”
Mars Plaisir stood deep in thought.
“You have never asked for your liberty?” said his master. “No. I knew that, for my sake, you had not. Has no one ever mentioned liberty to you? I understand,” he continued, seeing an expression of confusion in the poor fellow’s face. “Do not tell me anything; only hear me. If freedom should be offered to you, take it. It is my wish—it is my command. Is there more wood? None but this?”
“None but this damp wood that chokes us with smoke. They send us the worst wood—the green, damp wood that the poorest of the whites in the castle will not use,” cried Mars Plaisir, striving to work off his emotions in a fit of passion. He kicked the unpromising log into the fireplace as he exclaimed—