“M. Julien, the oath which I took before the crucifix in the ‘Royal Courtyard,’ on the day when I was installed in my place, obliges me to silence.”
He was silent, but remained. Julien was amused by the sight of this vulgar hypocrisy. I must make him, he thought, wait a long time for the five francs which he wants to sell his conscience for.
When the gaoler saw him finish his meal without making any attempt to corrupt him, he said in a soft and perfidious voice:
“The affection which I have for you, M. Julien, compels me to speak. Although they say that it is contrary to the interests of justice, because it may assist you in preparing your defence. M. Julien you are a good fellow at heart, and you will be very glad to learn that madame de Rênal is better.”
“What! she is not dead?” exclaimed Julien, beside himself.
“What, you know nothing?” said the gaoler, with a stupid air which soon turned into exultant cupidity. “It would be very proper, monsieur, for you to give something to the surgeon, who, so far as law and justice go, ought not to have spoken. But in order to please you, monsieur, I went to him, and he told me everything.”
“Anyway, the wound is not mortal,” said Julien to him impatiently, “you answer for it on your life?”
The gaoler, who was a giant six feet tall, was frightened and retired towards the door. Julien saw that he was adopting bad tactics for getting at the truth. He sat down again and flung a napoleon to M. Noiraud.
As the man’s story proved to Julien more and more conclusively that madame de Rênal’s wound was not mortal, he felt himself overcome by tears. “Leave me,” he said brusquely.
The gaoler obeyed. Scarcely had the door shut, than Julien exclaimed: “Great God, she is not dead,” and he fell on his knees, shedding hot tears.