Part 52 (1/2)
”Another!” they shouted.
And, as an arrest was brought in from the opposite direction just afterwards, they clapped again and repeated their shout of ”Another!”
His guards dragged him into the presence of the concierge, who eyed him from his arm-chair with a drunken glance.
”Dungeon,” he muttered.
With a banging of bolts and a creaking of doors, two turnkeys led Lecour down into a region of darkness. The turnkeys, like their chief, were surly sots. They took him along a low pa.s.sage where mastiffs which patrolled it eyed him, threw back a cell door, thrust him in, and disappeared with their lanterns.
Shut in by low, dark walls, and a roof and floor of stone, reeking with damp and filth, the cell, though but twenty feet by ten or twelve, was already the habitation of at least a score of persons.
Their features could not be easily discerned, since the only light in the obscurity was that of a single candle.
”Comrade, the floor is soft,” exclaimed one of the group nearest him--a man of one eye lying on a pile of straw. ”Let me present you to our _confrere_, the parricide.”
”Shut your gob, thief,” shouted a voice, and a heavy scuffle ensued.
Germain leaned against the wall to recover his nerves.
The other inmates had been holding a mock revolutionary trial and condemning one of their number to execution. Some acted the part of judges, some of jury-men, two of guards.
The man on trial turned indignantly on the criminals who had first accosted Lecour.
”I pray you, Monsieur,” said he courteously to the latter, ”Do not take that for your reception here. Those men are the disgrace of the cell.
The rest of us have been used to a happier condition. Let us introduce ourselves. I am the Baron de Grancey; my friend, the judge president, is the Count de Bellecour.”
Germain's surprise would have been great had he been less in misery. As it was he was surprised at nothing. Here it was but another stab in his heart. Unable to answer he sat down on a stone bench.
”Friends, we must change the diversion,” Grancey said sympathetically.
”Perhaps our comrade might feel better over a hand at picquet.”
”Ten straws a point!” exclaimed Bellecour. ”Dame, it seems to me I know his face. Where have I met you, sir?”
”De Lincy, _pardieu_!” Grancey echoed, scrutinising the new-comer's features. ”Friend Germain, this is a sorry place to welcome you, but you will find it brighter than you think; there are wit, forgetfulness, society, and some happiness, even in the Conciergerie. Wait until you get up to the corridor to-morrow; you will meet enough of your friends to hold a respectable reception.”
Still Germain could not answer. They did not realise his sorrow and embarra.s.sment in the presence of the old friends to whose friends.h.i.+p he felt he had no right. His head remained bent. Of a sudden the candle flickered out and relieved him of the need of speaking. They withdrew wondering to their pile of straw.
He did not move from the bench where he sat. Soon, except for the heavy breathing of his companions, silence enveloped the place. He became absorbed in anxious imaginings.
What had happened when Cyrene and Dominique returned to the house? What accidents overtook them at the Hotel de Ville? Where was she? What were her thoughts at that moment? And what her sufferings? Then a picture flitted across his consciousness of the early days of their meeting, the life at Fontainebleau, the charm of old Versailles. At the memory of that taste of a beautiful existence, an unearthly, sorrowful, prophetic longing came over him, not for himself but for others, for a clime where falsity, grief, change, and pride should be winnowed completely away from loveliness. He dreamt a world to come wherein the poor, the low-born, the deformed, yes, the debased children of crime itself should become of strong and perfect forms, of sensitive and rich artistic sense, wealthy as imagination in castles, parks, and solitudes, pure and keen of honour, spiritually sweet of thought, and so live serene for ever, for ever, for ever.
As morning grew, a dim light became perceptible from the corridor, and the prisoners one by one awoke. But Lecour was so weary that he fell asleep on the bench.
His shoulder was roughly shaken. ”Stand up,” said a turnkey. Germain opened his eyes and staggered to his feet.
”Salute the President of the Commune, you----” Before him was a short man in carmagnole and sabre, whom the other prisoners eyed with resentment and alarm.
Lecour bowed.