This charming young soldier of fortune was our room-mate for nine months, and engaged in several of our enterprises for escape. But Germaine was more a man of finesse than action, and his imprisonment was the first mishap of that nature in his felonious career; so that I cannot say I derived much advantage, either from his contrivances or suggestions.
I always cultivated a sneaking fondness for the sex, and was, perhaps, especially devoted to those who might aid me if they pleased, when I got into difficulties. Into this category, under existing circumstances, fell that very worthy person, Mademoiselle Babette, whom I have heretofore rather ungallantly reported as an “antique virgin.” It is true that Babette was, perhaps, not as young as she had been; but an unmarried Frenchwoman is unquestionably possessed of an elixir against age,—some eau restoratif,—with which she defies time, preserves her outlines, and keeps up that elastic gayety of heart, which renders her always the most delightful of companions. Now, I do not pretend, when I flirted with Babette, and sometimes made downright love to the damsel, that I ever intended leading her to any of the altars of Brest, when it should please the “king of the barricades” to release me from prison. No such design ever possessed my mind, at the age of twenty-seven, towards a maid of thirty. Yet, I confess that Babette bewitched the sting and memory from many an hour of prison-life, and played the comedy of love à la Francaise to such perfection, that I doubt not her heart rebounded from the encounter as scarless as my own.
Germaine joked me very often about the tender passion, the danger of trifling with youthful hearts, and the risk I ran from encounters with such glittering eyes; till, one day, he suggested that we should take advantage of the flirtation, by turning it to our benefit in flight. Sorret and his wife often went out in the afternoon, and left the gate and the keys solely in charge of Babette, who improved their absence by spending half the time in our apartment. Now, Germaine proposed that, during one of these absences, I should, in my capacity as teacher, feign some excuse to leave our room, and, if I found the lieutenant porteress unwilling to yield the keys to my passionate entreaty, we would unhesitatingly seize, gag, and muffle the damsel so securely, that, with the keys in our possession, we might open the gates, and pass without question the only sentinels who guarded the exterior corridor. Germaine was eloquent upon the merit of his scheme, while, to my mind, it indicated the bungling project of a beginner, and was promptly rejected, because I would not injure with violence the innocent girl I had trifled with, and because I would not dishonor the kindness of Sorret and his wife, by compromising their personal vigilance.
Next morning, Germaine turned over to me long before daylight, and whispered his delight that I had discarded his scheme, for it “never could have been perfected without passports to quit the town!” This deficiency, he said, had absorbed his mind the livelong night, and, at last, a bright thought suggested the supply.
“Babette,” continued the forger, “is not to be molested in any way, so you may make your mind easy about your sweetheart, though I am afraid she will not be able to accompany us in our enterprise. First and foremost, we must have a visit from our Spanish girls to-morrow, and, as you enjoy more influence than I, it will be best for you to prepare them. Dolores, who is by far the cleverest of the party, is to go with Concha boldly to the prefecture of police, and demand passports for Paris. These, in all likelihood, will be furnished without question. The passports once in hand, our demoiselles must be off to an apothecary’s for such acids as I shall prescribe; and then, mon capitaine, leave the rest to me!”
I turned the matter over in my mind, pretending to finish a morning nap, and, while we were dressing, assented. The Spanish women, who never refused their countrymen a favor, daringly obtained the passports, and smuggled them into prison with the required acids. Before night the deed was done; the gender of the documents was changed; Germaine was metamorphosed into “Pietro Nazzolini” a tailor, and I was turned into a certain “Dominico Antonetti,” by trade a carpenter!
How to escape was our next concern. This could not be effected without breaking prison,—a task of some enterprise, as our apartment was above a store-room, always closed, barred, and locked. The door of our room opened on a long passage, broken at intervals by several iron gates before the main portal was reached; so that our only hope was the single window, that illuminated our apartment and looked into a small yard, guarded after sunset by a sentinel. This court, moreover, was entirely hemmed in by a wall, which, if successfully escaladed, would lead us to the parade ground of the chateau.
Days passed, while my dull brain and the kindled fancy of the new Nazzolini were inventing plans. Pietro had schemes enough, for his imagination was both vivid and ceaseless; but whenever he came to reduce them to words, it was always found that they required a little more “polishing in certain links,” which he forthwith retired to perform.
One of our greatest difficulties was, how to deal with my officers, who had proved so false on the Senegal. We debated the matter for a long time; but, considering that they were sick of long confinement and bereft of future comfort without my labor we resolved to let them partake our flight, though, once outside the chateau, we would abandon them to their own resources.