"Yes, if--if you could find happiness thereby. For suppose--only suppose--that some great chance should come to you; some undreamed of, unsuspected chance, by which you might be enabled to see once more the wife you so tenderly loved, the little child you left sleeping on her bosom----"
"Stop! For God's sake, stop!" De Chevagny exclaimed. "You torture me; you wring my heart worse, far worse, than ever Bluet did. You conjure up hopes that my senses tell me can never be realized; you bring before me thoughts and ideas that I have been trying to bury and put away for many, many years now."
And, as he spoke, Bertie saw his old eyes fill with tears; again saw those tears drop from his eyelids to his snowy beard.
"Oh, my friend, my fellow-prisoner," he said, "believe me, I would not torture you unnecessarily. Think you that I, before whom this living tomb yawns as it yawned before you years ago--that I, who, Great Powers! may be here, in this very room, forty years hence--would say one word to distress you? No, no. Never, never! But, listen to me, I beseech you; and, above all, listen to me calmly. I have something to tell you, something that I pray earnestly may make you very, very happy."
As he spoke he dropped on one knee by the old man's side, while, taking one of his hands in his, he passed his arm round the other's waist, and, drawing him to him, supported his now trembling form as a son might have done. And as he did so he felt how worn and thin his poor old body was.
"What is it?" whispered the marquis. "What is it? You--you frighten me! I--I cannot bear a shock."
"Pray, pray," continued Bertie, "do not be frightened nor alarmed. Indeed, you have no cause. But, oh, my dear and honoured friend and companion, there has come strange news into this place, strange news for you--nay, start not! Strange news! It is said--strive to be calm, I beseech you--that, that--be brave! as you have been so long--your release is at hand. It may come soon, at any moment now."
He felt the old man's feeble frame quiver in his grasp; he felt him draw a long breath, and saw him close his eyes. Then for a long while he was silent, sitting enfolded in the other's arms as though he were asleep or dead. But at last he spoke:
"If it should be so, if this is true, what will become of me? Can I hope to find my wife alive? And for my little child that was--she is almost old now, if she still lives. She will not know me; will not, perhaps, believe I am her father."
"Oh, how can she doubt it? And for your wife--she need not be dead; how many women live far beyond your own age--why, my mother is near it. Look hopefully forward, therefore, I beg of you, to your release; think of what happiness may be yours still."