Aubrey passed the two hours sitting upon his stool, without once moving: his mind was so active that it kept his body at rest.
At the appointed hour the turnkey came down, renewed the water, and changed the bread; this was what, in Châtelet parlance, was called a dinner.
The student remembered what the dying man told him, that the door of his cell would be opened but once in the twenty-four hours; however he still remained for a long while in the same place, absolutely motionless, fearing lest the event that had just occurred should cause some change in the routine of the prison.
He soon observed, through his air-hole, that it was beginning to grow dark. The day just passed had been a well filled day for him. In the morning, the examination by the magistrate; at noon, the duel with Marmagne; at one o'clock, lodged in prison; at three, the prisoner's death; and now his first attempts at securing his freedom.
A man does not pass many such days in his life.
Jacques Aubry rose at last, and walked to the door to listen for footsteps: then, in order that the dirt and the wall might leave no marks upon his doublet, he removed that portion of his costume, pulled the bed away from the corner, and found the opening of which his companion had spoken.
He crawled like a snake into the narrow gallery, which was some eight feet deep, and which, after making a dip under the partition wall, ascended on the other side.
As soon as he plunged his dagger into the earth he knew by the sound that he would very soon accomplish his purpose, which was to open a passage into some place or other. What that place would be only a sorcerer could have told.
He kept actively at work, making as little noise as possible. From time to time he went out of the excavation as a miner does, in order to scatter the loose earth about the floor of his cell; otherwise it would eventually have blocked up the gallery; then he would crawl back, and set to work once more.
While Aubrey was working, Ascanio was thinking sadly of Colombe.
He too, as we have said, had been taken to the Châtelet; he too had been cast into a dungeon. But, it may have been by chance, it may have been at the duchess's suggestion, his quarters were a little less bare, consequently a little more habitable, than the student's.
But what did Ascanio care for a little more or a little less comfort. His dungeon was a dungeon all the same; his captivity a separation. He had not Colombe, who was more to him than light, or liberty, or life. Were Colombe with him in his dungeon, the dungeon would become an abode of bliss, a palace of enchantment.
The poor child had been so happy during the days immediately preceding his arrest! Thinking of his beloved by day, and sitting by her side at night, he had never thought that his happiness might some day come to an end. And if, sometimes, in the midst of his felicity, the iron hand of doubt had clutched his heart, he had, like one threatened by danger from some unknown source, promptly put aside all uneasiness concerning the future that he might lose none of his present bliss.
And now he was in prison, alone, far from Colombe, who was perhaps imprisoned like himself, perhaps a prisoner in some convent, whence she could escape in no other way than by going to the chapel, where the husband whom they sought to force upon her awaited her.
Two redoubtable passions were standing guard at their cell doors; the love of Madame d'Etampes at Ascanio's, the ambition of Comte d'Orbec at Colombe's.
As soon as he was alone in his dungeon, therefore, Ascanio became very sad and down-hearted; his was one of those clinging natures which need the support of some robust organization; he was one of those slender, graceful flowers, which bend before the first breath of the tempest, and straighten up again only in the vivifying rays of the sun.
Had Benvenuto been in his place, his first thought would have been to examine the doors, sound the walls, and stamp upon the floor, to see if one or the other would not afford his quick and combative mind some possible means of escape. But Ascanio sat down upon his bed, let his head fall upon his breast, and whispered Colombe's name. It never occurred to him that one could escape by any possible means from a dungeon behind three iron doors and surrounded by walls six feet thick.
The dungeon was, as we have said, a little less bare and a little more habitable than that assigned to Jacques. It contained a bed, a table, two chairs, and an old rush mat. Furthermore, a lamp was burning upon a stone projection, doubtless arranged for that purpose. Beyond question it was a cell set apart for privileged prisoners.
There was also a great difference in the matter of food: instead of the bread and water which was brought to the student once a day, Ascanio enjoyed two daily repasts, a privilege somewhat neutralized by the consequent necessity of seeing the jailer twice in the twenty-four hours. These repasts, it should be said to the credit of the philanthropic administration of the Châtelet, were not altogether execrable.
Ascanio thought but little of such paltry details: his was one of those delicate feminine organizations which seem to exist on perfume and dew. Without awaking from his reverie he ate a hit of bread, drank a few drops of wine, and continued to think of Colombe and of Benvenuto Cellini; of Colombe as of her to whom all his love was given, of Cellini as of him in whom lay all his hope.
Indeed, up to that moment Ascanio had never been concerned with any of the cares or details of existence. Benvenuto lived for both, and Ascanio was content to breathe, to dream of some lovely work of art, and to love Colombe. He was like the fruit which grows upon a sturdy tree, and draws all its life from the tree.
And even now, perilous as was his situation, if he could have seen Benvenuto Cellini at the moment of his arrest, or at the moment of his incarceration, and Benvenuto had said to him, with a warm grasp of his hand.
"Have no fear, Ascanio, for I am watching over you and Colombe," his confidence in the master was so great that, relying upon that promise alone, he would have waited without anxiety for the prison doors to be thrown open, sure that thrown open they would be, in spite of bars and locks.
But he had not seen Benvenuto, and Benvenuto did not know that his cherished pupil, the son of his Stefana, was a prisoner. It would have taken a whole day to carry the intelligence to him at Fontainebleau, assuming that it had occurred to any one to do it, another day to return to Paris, and in two days the enemies of the lovers might gain a long lead upon their defender.
So it was that Ascanio passed the rest of the day and the whole of the night following his arrest without sleep, sometimes pacing back and forth in his cell, sometimes sitting down, and occasionally throwing himself upon the bed, which was provided with white sheets,—a special mark of favor which proved that Ascanio had been particularly commended to the attention of the authorities. During that day and night and the following morning nothing worthy of note occurred, unless it was the regular visit of the jailer to bring his food.
About two o'clock in the afternoon, as nearly as the prisoner could judge by his reckoning of the time, he thought that he heard voices near at hand: it was a dull, indistinct murmur, but evidently caused by the vocal organs of human beings. Ascanio listened and walked toward the point whence the sound seemed to come; it was at one of the corners of his cell. He silently put his ear to the wall and to the ground, and found that the voices apparently came from beneath the floor.
It was evident that he had neighbors who were separated from him only by a thin partition or an equally thin floor. After some two hours the sounds ceased, and all was still once more.
Toward night the noise began again, but this time it was of a different nature. It was not that which would be made by two persons speaking together, but consisted of dull, hurried blows as of some one cutting stone. It came from the same place, did not cease for a second, and seemed to come nearer and nearer.
Absorbed as Ascanio was in his own thoughts, this noise seemed to him deserving of some attention none the less, so he sat with his eyes glued to the spot whence it came. He judged that it must be near midnight, but he did not once think of sleeping, notwithstanding that he had not slept for so many hours.
The noise continued: as it was long past the usual hour for work, it was evidently some prisoner seeking to escape. Ascanio smiled sadly at the thought that the poor devil, who would think for a moment, mayhap, that he was at liberty, would find that he had simply changed his cell.
At last the noise approached so near that Ascanio ran and seized his lamp, and returned with it to the corner; almost at the same moment the earth rose up in that spot, and as it fell away disclosed a human head.
Ascanio uttered an exclamation of wonder, followed by a cry of joy, to which a no less delighted cry made answer. The head belonged to Jacques Aubry.
In an instant, thanks to the assistance rendered by Ascanio to the unexpected visitor who made his appearance in such extraordinary fashion, the two friends were in one another's arms.
As will readily be conceived, the first questions and answers were somewhat incoherent; but at last, after exchanging a few disconnected exclamations, they succeeded in restoring some semblance of order to their thoughts, and in casting some light upon recent events. Ascanio to be sure had almost nothing to say, and everything to learn.
Eventually Aubry told him the whole story: how he had returned to the Hôtel de Nesle simultaneously with Benvenuto; how they had learned almost at the same moment of the arrest of Ascanio and the abduction of Colombe; how Benvenuto had rushed off to his studio like a madman, shouting, "To the casting! to the casting!" and he, Aubry, to the Châtelet. Of what had taken place at the Hôtel de Nesle since that time the student could tell him nothing.
But to the general narrative of the Iliad succeeded the private adventures of Ulysses. Aubry described to Ascanio his disappointment at his failure to get committed to prison; his visit to Gervaise, and her denunciation of him to the lieutenant criminal; his terrible examination, which had no other result than the paltry fine of twenty Paris sous, a result most insulting to the honor of Gervaise; and finally his encounter with Marmagne just as he was beginning to despair of procuring his own incarceration. From that point he related everything that had happened to him up to the moment when, utterly in the dark as to what cell he was about to enter, he had thrust his head through the last crust of earth, and discerned by the light of his lamp his friend Ascanio.
Whereupon the friends once more embraced with great heartiness.
"Now," said Jacques Aubry, "listen to me, Ascanio, for there is no time to lose."
"But first of all," said Ascanio, "tell me of Colombe. Where is Colombe?"
"Colombe? I can't tell you. With Madame d'Etampes, I think."
"With Madame d'Etampes!" cried Ascanio,—"her rival!"
"So what they say of the duchess's love for you is true, is it?"
Ascanio blushed and stammered some unintelligible words.
"Oh, you needn't blush for that!" cried Aubry. "Deuce take me! a duchess! and a duchess who's the king's mistress at that! I should never have any such luck. But let us come back to business."
"Yes," said Ascanio, "let us come back to Colombe."
"Bah! I'm not talking about Colombe. I'm talking about a letter."
"What letter?"
"A letter the Duchesse d'Etampes wrote you."
"Who told you that I have a letter from the Duchesse d'Etampes in my possession?"
"Benvenuto Cellini."
"Why did he tell you that?"
"Because he must have that letter, because it is absolutely essential that he should have it, because I agreed to take it to him, because all I have done was done to get possession of that letter."
"But for what purpose does Benvenuto want the letter?"
"Ah! faith, I've no idea, and it doesn't concern me. He said to me, 'I must have that letter.' I said to him, 'Very good, I will get it for you.' I have had myself put in prison in order to get it; so give it me, and I agree to deliver it to Benvenuto. Well, what's the matter?"
This last question was induced by the cloud which spread over Ascanio's face.
"The matter is, my poor Aubry," said he, "that your trouble is thrown away."
"How so?" cried Aubry. "Haven't you the letter still?"
"It is here," said Ascanio, placing his hand upon the pocket of his doublet.
"Ah! that's well. Give it to me, and I will take it to Benvenuto."
"That letter will never leave me, Jacques."
"Why so?"
"Because I don't know what use Benvenuto proposes to make of it."
"He means to use it to save you."
"And to crush the Duchesse d'Etampes, it may be. Aubry, I will not help to ruin a woman."
"But this woman seeks to ruin you. This woman detests you: no, I am wrong, she adores you."
"And you would have me, in return for that feeling—"
"Why, it's exactly the same as if she hated you since you don't love her. Besides, it's she who has done all this."
"What! she who has done it?"
"Why, yes, it was she who caused your arrest, and carried off Colombe."
"Who told you that?"
"No one; but who else could it have been?"
"Why the provost, or D'Orbec, or Marmagne, to whom you admit that you told the whole story."
"Ascanio! Ascanio!" cried Jacques in despair, "you are destroying yourself!"
"I prefer to destroy myself, rather than do a dastardly deed, Aubry."
"But this is no dastardly deed, for Benvenuto is the one who undertakes to do it."
"Listen to me, Aubry," said Ascanio, "and don't be angry at what I say. If Benvenuto stood in your place, and should say to me, 'It was Madame d'Etampes, your enemy, who caused your arrest, who carried off Colombe, who now has her in her power and intends to force her to do what she does not wish to do,—I cannot save Colombe unless I have that letter,'—I would make him swear that he would not show it to the king, and then I would give it to him. But Benvenuto is not here, and I am not certain that it is the duchess who is persecuting me. This letter would not be safe in your hands, Aubry: forgive me, but you yourself admit that you are an arrant chatterbox."
"I promise you, Ascanio, that the day I have just passed has aged me ten years."
"You may lose the letter, or, with the best intentions, I know, make an injudicious use of it, Aubry, so the letter will remain where it is."
"But, my dear fellow," cried Jacques, "remember that Benvenuto himself said that nothing but this letter can save you."
"Benvenuto will save me without that, Aubry; Benvenuto has the king's word that he will grant him whatever favor he asks on the day that his Jupiter is safely cast. When you thought that Benvenuto was going mad because he shouted, 'To the casting!' he was beginning to rescue me."
"But suppose the casting should be unsuccessful?" said Aubry.
"There's no danger," rejoined Ascanio with a smile.
"But that sometimes happens to the most skilful founders in France, so I am told."
"The most skilful founders in France are mere schoolboys compared to Benvenuto."
"But how much time is required for the casting?"
"Three days."
"And how much more before the statue can be put before the king?"
"Three days more."
"Six or seven days in all. And suppose Madame d'Etampes forces Colombe to marry D'Orbec within six days?"
"Madame d'Etampes has no power over Colombe. Colombe will resist."
"Very true, but the provost has power over Colombe as his daughter, and King François I. has power over Colombe as his subject; suppose the provost and the king both order her to marry him?"
Ascanio became frightfully pale.
"Suppose that when Benvenuto demands your liberty, Colombe is already the wife of another, what will you do with your liberty then?"
Ascanio passed one hand across his brow to wipe away the cold sweat which the student's words caused to start thereon, while with the other hand he felt in his pocket for the precious letter; but just as Aubry felt certain that he was on the point of yielding, he shook his head as if to banish all irresolution.
"No!" he said, "no! No no one save Benvenuto. Let us talk of something else."
These words he uttered in a tone which indicated that, for the moment at least, it was useless to insist.
"In that case," said Aubry, apparently forming a momentous resolution; "in that case, my friend, if we are to talk on other subjects we may as well do it to-morrow morning, or later in the day, for I am afraid we may remain here for some time. For my own part, I confess that I am worn out by my tribulations of the day and my labor to-night, and shall not be sorry for a little rest. Do you remain here, and I will go back to my own cell. When you want to see me again, do you call me. Meanwhile, spread this mat over the hole I have made, so that our communications may not be cut off. Good night! the night brings counsel, they say, and I hope that I shall find you more reasonable to-morrow morning."
With that, and refusing to listen to the observations of Ascanio, who sought to detain him, Jacques Aubry plunged head first into his gallery, and crawled back to his cell. Ascanio, meanwhile, following up the advice his friend had given him, dragged the mat into the corner of his cell as soon as the student's legs had disappeared. The means of communication between the two cells thereupon disappeared altogether.
He then tossed his doublet upon one of the two chairs which, with the table and the lamp, constituted the furnishings of his apartment, stretched himself out upon the bed, and, overdone with fatigue as he was, soon fell asleep, his bodily weariness carrying the day over his mental torture.
Aubry, instead of following Ascanio's example, although he was quite as much in need of sleep as he, sat down upon his stool, and began to reflect deeply, which, as the reader knows, was so entirely contrary to all his habits, that it was evident that he was meditating some grand stroke.
The student's immobility lasted about fifteen minutes, after which he rose slowly, and, with the step of a man whose irresolution is at an end for good and all, walked to the hole, and crawled into it again, but this time with so much caution and so noiselessly, that, when he reached the other end and raised the mat, he was overjoyed to perceive that the operation had not aroused his friend.
That was all that the student wished. With even greater caution than he had theretofore exhibited, he crept stealthily forth from his underground gallery, and approached with bated breath the chair on which Ascanio's doublet lay. With one eye fixed upon the sleeping youth, and his ears on the alert for the slightest sound, he took from the pocket the precious letter so eagerly coveted by Cellini, and placed in the envelope a note from Gervaise, which he folded in exactly the same shape as the duchess's letter, sure that Ascanio would believe, so long as he did not open it, that lovely Anne d'Heilly's missive was still in his possession.
As silently as ever he stole back to the mat, raised it, crawled into the hole once more, and disappeared like the phantoms who sink through trap-doors at the opera.
It was high time, for he was no sooner back in his cell, than he heard Ascanio's door grinding on its hinges, and his friend's voice crying, in the tone of one suddenly aroused from sleep,—
"Who's there?"
"I," responded a soft voice, "do not be afraid, for it is a friend."
Ascanio, who was but half dressed, rose at the sound of the voice, which he seemed to recognize, and saw by the light of his lamp a veiled woman standing by the door. She slowly approached him and raised her veil. He was not mistaken,—it was Madame d'Etampes.