"May all the saints bless you!" said François, and sat down on the lower step. For a while all was still.
XXIV
Of how François got into good society underground—Of what he saw, and of the value of a cat's eyes—From darkness to light—Of how François made friends for life.
"It was dark indeed; I had never imagined such darkness," says François in his memoirs.[#] He adds that he has heard the story of this wonderful escape from the catacombs told over and over by M. des Illes. He does not consider that it did him (François), the principal person, sufficient justice. He had also heard the old Duke Philippe relate the matter, and it was incredible how crooked he got it. But, then, Duke Philippe was a man who had no sense of humor. As to his dear Mme. des Illes, when she did tell this story, the baby was the chief hero. Duke Henri,—that is, the present man,—although only a lad when these events took place, remembered them well.
[#] See Epilogue.
"When he was seventeen," says François, "we used to fence together. I have often heard him relate to the other young fellows how we made our escape; but Duke Henri has too much imagination, and that, you see, makes a man inaccurate. I knew two very accomplished thieves who were inaccurate. I am not. Duke Henri's tale got stronger, like wine, as time went on. The rats grew to be of the size of cats; three of them pulled the baby out of madame's lap. And as to the people we killed, it would have satisfied M. Dumas, who is the greatest and most correct of such as write history."
The present author grieves that he has not the narration of this famous escape at the hands of Mme. des Illes and the two dukes, father and son. Those who have found leisure to read "A Little More Burgundy" have heard Des Illes's narrative as M. des Illes related it. Those who have not read that rendering may incline to hear François's own statement of what happened after he thus found himself in darkness with people he had never seen. I have followed his memoir pretty closely. It tells some things of which the other people concerned did not know. Evidently he considered it a less tragic affair than did they. It has been needful to condense François's account, and to do this especially where he speaks of his own intermediate adventures, which were singular enough.
When, as I have said, François, obeying Duke Philippe, put out his lantern, he sat still awhile, and said nothing. Like the rest, he was fearful lest the officers he had disturbed so rudely should make a too effective search. Their inspection of the upper cellar would be perilous enough. The anxious people beneath held their breaths when a man overhead stumbled across the staves the thief had set to fall on the trap-door. After a while all noises faded away, and in the evening the duke proposed to reconnoiter once more; but when he tried to lift the trap, it was found impossible to do so. The municipals, in their examination, must have rolled a full barrel of wine upon the door. This discovery was, or seemed, an overwhelming calamity.
François during the day came to understand that here in the darkness were Duke Philippe de St. Maur, his son Henri, a lad, another rather older boy, Des Illes, Mme. des Illes, and the baby, who made himself terribly well known by occasional protests in the tongue of babyhood. As the thief became accustomed to the gloom and the company, his usual cheeriness returned; and when they could not open the trap he began to propose all manner of schemes. He would bore a hole and let out the wine, and so lighten the barrel. He would shoot a ball through the trap and the barrel, and thus let out the weight of wine. The duke, who never lost respect for his own dignity, was disgusted, and would listen to none of his counsels.
Toward bedtime the baby began to wail dismally; the boys sobbed; and Mme. des Illes cried out to them that they should be ashamed to complain, and then, by way of comment, herself burst into tears; while the duke stumbled about, and swore under his breath. This was all very astonishing to François, who had seen little of any world but his own, and to whom calamity served only as a hint to consider some way to escape its effects. He remained silent for a while, after the duke had let him plainly understand that he was a fool and had better hold his tongue. This lasted for a half-hour, during which he sat still, thinking, with full eyes, of his dead dog. By degrees the children grew quiet, and the baby, having exhausted his vocabulary and himself, fell asleep. Then the duke said irritably: