“It is of no importance,” Archie replied.
When Archie had inspected the guillotine in the garret, which Deschamps exhibited to every visitor with great pride, the jailer led him to the open air.
“Do the prisoners never escape?” Archie asked.
“Escape!” Deschamps cried, with reproach and indignation. “Monsieur, how could you suggest it? Escape! From me––from me, monsieur!” He struck his breast and extended 164 his arms. “Ah, no––they could not! My bravery, monsieur––my strength––all the world knows of them. I am famous, monsieur. Deschamps, the wrestler! Escape! From me! Ah, no––it is impossible!”
When Archie had more closely observed his gigantic form, his broad, muscular chest, his mighty arms and thick neck, his large, lowering face––when he had observed all this he fancied that a man might as well wrestle with a grizzly as oppose him, for it would come to the same thing in the end.
“You are a strong man,” Archie admitted.
“Thanks––thanks––monsieur!” the delighted Deschamps responded.
At that moment, a long, dismal howl broke the quiet. It was repeated even more excruciatingly.
“The pig of a Newfoundlander!” groaned Deschamps. “My head! It is fearful. He will give me the headache.”
Archie departed. He was angry with Deschamps for having called Newfoundlanders pigs. After all, he determined, angrily, the jailer was deserving of small sympathy.