If the unhappy man desired to see horror depicted on that newcomer's face--if such a sight could be gratifying to him who had lived forgotten there so long, without, perhaps, even knowing why he was so detained, he must indeed have been gratified. For as that terrible sentence came out letter by letter on the board, Bertie shrank back from the lattice, while his countenance must plainly have shown to the other the emotions of pity mixed with dread and dismay with which the communication had filled him. "Twenty-one years," he muttered to himself, forgetting even for the moment his new-found acquaintance opposite, "twenty-one years without knowing what he is charged with; without hope. My God! what has his life been during that time; waiting, waiting always! And it may be so with me," he thought, shuddering as he did so, "it may be my case. I am twenty-six years old now; at forty-seven I may still be in this prison, untried, uncondemned, yet unreleased--no nearer to my freedom than now." And again he shuddered.
He glanced over to the unhappy prisoner in the opposite tower as he finished these reflections, and saw that he was waiting for his attention to begin his letters again. And, once more fascinated by their terrible revelations, he watched eagerly as the next sentence was formed.
Slowly the words were composed, letter by letter; slowly they met his eyes, and seemed to numb his brain and strike a chill to his heart. "I am not the worst case," the prisoner spelt out. "Above you in the Tour de la Bertaudière is one who has been here for forty-two years. Untried still!" Then, with a wave of his hand, the man vanished from his window--perhaps because he heard the gaoler coming into his room--and Bertie saw him no more that day.
Yet that which he had gleaned from his opposite neighbour was enough to furnish him with sufficient food for miserable reflections all through the remainder of the day, and far into the night when he lay sleepless on his unclean bed. Bluet had visited him twice during that period, bringing him two more meals--each good enough in its way, and with different meats at each, but badly cooked; and on the second occasion, and when he could perceive through the lattice that night was coming on, the turnkey had offered to let him have some light if he wished it. High up above the latticed window there was an iron socket into which a candle could be fitted, or on to which a lamp might be swung, and Bluet had volunteered to bring in a ladder and place the light there if Elphinston desired it. But he replied, "No, he wanted nothing. He would try to sleep till daybreak, try to rest. The day had been long enough for him already."
"Ma foi! sans doute!" the fellow replied, he seeming neither more nor less drunk than he had been at nine o'clock in the morning. "Sans doute, monsieur is fatigued, yet he must not lose heart. If the judges do not release him ere long, he shall be moved to another chamber where, perhaps, he will have some society. There is plenty here. Of all sorts. Then monsieur will be gay."
"Gay!" exclaimed Bertie. "Gay! In this place?"
"And why not? Oh, figure to yourself, there is gaiety here and to suffice. Hark now to that! Hark, I say!" and at the moment he spoke Bertie heard a voice in his own tongue trolling forth a drinking song.
"Ha! ha! Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the turnkey, "it is the gallant captain. Also a captain like monsieur, but of the road. They say he stopped the Cardinal's carriage at Fontainebleau not so long ago, yet this he denies. And a spy, too, of England, they say. He plays the big game. Mon Dieu! listen! he sings well, though I understand no word of your somewhat severe and sombre tongue."
Severe and sombre though it might be, it did not sound so as the gallant captain shouted forth his drinking song.
"He's gay," said Bluet; "he has found a new companion--one, however, who will scarce join in his mirth. A miserable creature sent in by the priests, a murderer, they hint. Mon Dieu! either he will desolate the captain or the captain will drive him mad with his carousings."