For the last few moments I had not been listening to him; the governor was talking to the priest, the usher’s eyes were on his papers, whilst mine were fixed upon the door which had remained half opened. Ah! wretch that I am, there were four soldiers in the passage.
The usher repeated his question, this time looking full at me.
“Whenever you wish,” answered I. “Suit your own convenience.”
He bowed, and replied that he would call for me in half an hour! Then they went out, and left me alone.
Oh for some means of escape! O heavens, is there no hope? I must escape, I must on the spot—by the doors, by the windows, by the roof, even if I leave remnants of my flesh on the rafters and the joists.
Oh! horror, devils, curses, with good tools it would take me a month to pierce these walls, and I have not even a nail to work with or an hour to spare.
CHAPTER XXI.
FROM THE CONCIERGERIE.
Here I am transferred, as the order words it. But the journey is worth the trouble of relating. Half-past seven had just struck, as the usher again presented himself at the door of my cell.
“Sir,” said he, “I am waiting for you.”
Me—yes, and thousands of others.