All day long Dr. Conneau had experienced almost as much emotion as the fugitive himself. He well knew how essential it was that several hours should elapse before his flight should be suspected; the slightest suspicion would cause telegrams to be sent to St. Quentin and Valenciennes for his arrest. The great thing was to gain time and to prevent any one from entering the empty apartments. He made a report that, after a sleepless night, the captive had suffered so much pain that he (the doctor) had administered a medicine which caused him to sleep; and he requested that his patient should remain undisturbed.
The doctor had put a manikin in the bed, made of a cloak and a silk handkerchief. At seven o’clock in the evening the commandant said to Dr. Conneau: “If the prince is suffering make your report. He has not been seen all day. This is the third time I have come here and asked to see him. Now I wish to see him.” As he opened the door the drums commenced to roll and he remarked: “That will awaken the prince; I think I saw him turn in the bed.” He approached and leaned over. “It seems to me I do not hear him breathe.” Looking more closely, in a moment he perceived the manikin. He exclaimed angrily, “What does this mean? Are you playing a trick on me? Where is the prince?”
“Mon ami,” said Dr. Conneau, “it is useless to conceal it from you any longer. The prince is gone.”
“Gone!” cried the commandant, “How? When? Where?”
“Excuse me,” said Dr. Conneau, “but that is my secret. I have done my duty; do yours and search.”
“But, at least, tell me at what hour,” insisted the commandant.
“At seven o’clock this morning,” replied Dr. Conneau.
“Very well, sir,” sternly said the commandant, “re-enter your prison.”
When Count de Montholon, who, with his wife, had been the companion of the prince in his captivity for six years, found that he had left the fortress without bidding him adieu, he was not only surprised, but offended. The following letter from the prince, however, was placed in his hands:
My Dear General: You will be much astonished by the decision I have taken, and still more so that having taken it I did not inform you of it sooner. But I thought it was better to leave you in ignorance of my plans, which date only a few days back; and besides I was convinced that my escape could not be otherwise than advantageous to you and to other friends whom I leave in prison. The government only detains you on my account; and when it sees that I have no intention of using my liberty against it it will, I hope, open the doors of all the prisons. Believe, dear general, that I greatly regret having been unable to see you and press your hand before departure; but that would have been impossible; my emotion would have betrayed the secret I wished to keep. I will write you as soon as I have reached a place of safety. Adieu, my general; receive the assurance of my friendship.