Suddenly he halted in his aimless tramp about his cell. The blind beggar—who was not really blind—had seen his capture, and, if himself unknown to Halima, would know those who were acquainted with her, and so the news would reach her. St. Just had not had time to recognize the man, even if he had ever seen him before; but he was convinced that he was in the plot.
His wife would not be long in hearing what had happened; perhaps she had heard already. And she could save him, if she would, for she had in her possession the charm that Josephine had given him, the talisman that Buonaparte had promised should three times be effective in protecting him, should the need arise and Buonaparte have the power; and surely, surely Halima would use it in his behalf.
This hope, nay, this certainty—for, after all her protestations of undying love, she would never be so base as to desert him—brought with it comparative relief, and he was able to look his position in the face, without the dread that had but now oppressed him.
Then, with reawakened confidence, he threw himself upon his narrow pallet and, worn out by the excitement he had undergone, soon dropped off into a slumber in which all his troubles were forgotten; he even dreamed that he was with Halima.
A week passed by, and gradually the captive's spirits sank, for not a whisper from the outer world had come to him, and the dreadful thought was gaining on him that, after all, he was to be abandoned to his fate. The hours dragged on in horrible monotony, his only visitor being his jailer, who came at stated intervals to supply him with the sorry food that was his fare. But, though the man was rough and almost surly, and could with difficulty be got to speak—and, when he did, it was only in monosyllables—St. Just looked forward to his visits with positive delight, parting from him with regret and counting the hours, by the chimes of distant clocks, until he should be due again. He was the captive's sole link with humanity.
St. Just made various attempts to sound him, asked him whether anyone had called at the prison in reference to his case; whether he was being talked about outside; whether he had heard again from Vipont; but he said not a word of Halima.
But he could extract nothing from Desmartins; the man was as close as a mouse trap that has just achieved its purpose. All that could be got from him was that he knew nothing. Then St. Just tried to inveigle him into talk on general topics; he was so loth to lose the sight of a human face, the sound of a human voice. But his jailer discouraged conversation and would have none of it.
However, on the evening of the seventh day of his incarceration, and without any previous intimation, the door of his cell was opened, and—not Desmartins, as he had at first assumed—but a file of soldiers entered. They were followed by their officer. He bowed to the prisoner and then told him that he had orders to remove him, and that it would be necessary to blindfold him.
"Whither do you take me?" asked St. Just.
"That I am not at liberty to say," replied the officer; "but you will learn anon."