"You are an honest man," said the Duke, with an expression of poignant grief, and lifting him up: "but I am a most unfortunate father."
D'Asbel just then came in with a letter.
"From my son," said the Duke, and he opened it. The features of the old man assumed, as he read, such an expression of terror, that Von Apsberg and the Secretary advanced towards him and sustained him, for he seemed ready to faint. "Read," said he, with a voice half indistinct, and he gave the Doctor the letter. It was as follows:
"My Dear Father:—I can conceal no longer that I am dying. One man alone, who has often soothed me by his care and advice, can now save me. This is Von Apsberg. I cannot, though, ask him to accompany you, for he would endanger his own liberty. Come, then, dear father, to see me for the last time."
"Let us go, sir," said the Doctor. "Let us not delay a minute, for in an hour—it may be too late."
"But you expose your life, Doctor, by going among your enemies," said the Duke.
"But I will save his," said Von Apsberg. The Duke rushed into his arms.
Half an hour afterwards two men entered the Conciergerie. They were the Vicomte's father and an English doctor whom the Duke brought to see his son. The Director of the prison did not dare to refuse a father and physician permission to see a sick son and patient. With the turnkeys they passed an iron grate, beyond which was seen a vaulted passage, which, in the darkness, seemed interminable. On the inner side of the grate sat a morose looking man, whom nature seemed to have created exclusively to live in one of these earthly hells. His only duty was to open and shut the grate, to which he seemed as firmly attached as one of its own bars. His duty was not without danger, for in case of a mutiny, the Cerberus had orders to throw on the outside the heavy key he was intrusted with, and thus expose himself, without means of escape, to the rage of the criminals. They showed this man their pass. The key turned in the lock, and the grate permitted them to enter. It then swung to, filling the vaulted passage with its clash. Near this was a dark room, in which were several dark-browed jailers and gend'armes.
The Duke and the Doctor were minutely examined. One of them, whose features hidden by a dirty cap might recall one of the persons of this history, left the group, opened the grate, and disappeared rapidly, just as a new jailer guided the visitors to a long corridor in one of the cells, on opening which was the Vicomte D'Harcourt. On a miserable pallet, in a kind of dark cellar, into which the day seemed to penetrate reluctantly, through a grated window, was René D'Harcourt, the last hope of an illustrious house, without air or any of the attentions his situation demanded. The Duke wept to see him. René, with hollow cheeks, and eyes sparkling with a burning fever, arose with pain and extended his arms to his father, who embraced him tenderly.
Fifteen days had expanded his disease, the germs of which had long slept in his system. The bad air and icy dew, amid which he lived, the absence of constant and vigilant care, in such cases so indispensable, had, as it were, conspired against him. A violent and dry cough every moment burst from his chest, and at every access his strength seemed more and more feeble. Had he sooner informed his father of his condition, beyond doubt, some active remedy would have been used, not for pity's sake, for at that time little was shown to conspirators, but from fear of the liberal press, whose censure the administration dreaded. René, however, was too disdainful of the persons he called his executioners to ask any favors. The physician of the prison, as we have said, was satisfied with ordering a few trifling palliatives. The Vicomte was dying without his even being aware of it. When the turnkey had introduced the Duke and the Englishman he left, telling them that in a few minutes he would return. Then the Vicomte saw that a stranger was with his father. The latter approached, and taking the young man's hand pressed it to his heart with an affection which told the prisoner who visited him.