In fact, the first explosion gave way to such utter collapse, that the words, “Oh, my son,” were but a murmur.
“Is this one going to die in our hands too?” said the turnkey.
“No; it is impossible!” Jacques Collin went on, raising himself and looking at the two witnesses of the scene with a dead, cold eye. “You are mistaken; it is not Lucien; you did not see. A man cannot hang himself in one of these cells. Look—how could I hang myself here? All Paris shall answer to me for that boy’s life! God owes it to me.”
The warder and the doctor were amazed in their turn—they, whom nothing had astonished for many a long day.
On seeing the governor, Jacques Collin, crushed by the very violence of this outburst of grief, seemed somewhat calmer.
“Here is a letter which the public prosecutor placed in my hands for you, with permission to give it to you sealed,” said Monsieur Gault.
“From Lucien?” said Jacques Collin.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Is not that young man——”
“He is dead,” said the governor. “Even if the doctor had been on the spot, he would, unfortunately, have been too late. The young man died—there—in one of the rooms——”