CHAPTER XII
A CHILD OF THE NIGHT
I sat for a long time, dazed and desperate, my head in my hands, my heart cold within me. It seemed that the last shred of my courage had been stripped from me. I was never again to see the trees nor the blue sky, or bare my head to the good sunshine. I was never again to lie in the grass and gaze up, up, through the heavens at the bright stars. I was never again to feel on my face the sweet breath of the south wind. I thought of the deep, placid Midouze, of the wide fields, of the dark forest, with the wild-flowers nestling in its depths. I thought of my mother, of my sister, of Nanette—I was never again to see Nanette—to hold her hand—to gaze into her eyes—she was to become prey to a monstrous appetite—ah, Christ!—my very soul trembled within me. She had called me—in terror and despair, she had called me—and I had not come! Instead, I had rushed headlong into this trap. I had played the fool! If I, alone, were to suffer I might endure it, but that she should suffer too——
But the mood passed, the throbbing in my brain subsided, stark fear hid its face. I shook myself together. After all, I was not yet dead, and so might yet escape. Still, the more I pondered the situation, the more remote did any chance of escape appear. I saw no way of accomplishing even the first step towards freedom, that of loosening myself from the chain which held me to the wall, and even were that done, I dared not think of the difficulties I must still encounter before I should be free. And yet I could not believe it was to be my fate to die here, chained to the wall, like a rat in a trap.
I heard the door opening again, and I stared in amazement at the queer figure that entered, carrying in one hand a candle and in the other a plate of food. It was a girl with legs grotesquely bowed, and in an instant I recognized the child I had rescued on the Quai des Théatins. At the same moment, the light from the candle fell upon my face, and she knew me.
“You!” she cried. “You! Oh, my God!” and she let fall the candle and plate upon the floor, her legs seemed to give way beneath her, and she sat rocking herself helplessly, despair writ large upon her face.
I stared at her a moment astounded, understanding nothing of her emotion. Then the words she had uttered, blushing, on the quay, came back to me—words called forth, perhaps, by the first touch of kindness she had ever known——
“I think—I should like you—very much, Monsieur!”
I looked at her again, and a ray of hope came to me. Perhaps in this unfortunate creature I might find an ally.
“Come,” I said, “this is not the way to help me, to spill my supper. I assure you, Mademoiselle, that I am very hungry.”
She gathered up the bread and meat without a word and gave them to me. I went at them vigorously and without minding the fact that some particles of dirt from the floor still clung to them. She set the candle upright beside her and watched me with eyes dark with apprehension. As I looked at her a thought suddenly occurred to me.
“Was it you,” I asked, “who went to the house in the Rue du Chantre to get Mère Fouchon’s clothing?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” she said.
“And you were on your way there when I picked you up on the quay?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
I smiled grimly as I reflected on the extraordinary chance which had taken me there just in time to save her life.
Suddenly she burst into a flood of tears.
“Oh, you smile!” she sobbed. “You do not understand, then. You do not know that you are to be left here, after we are gone, and that no one will ever find you.”
“Oh, yes, I have been told so,” I answered, “but I do not believe it.”
She raised her head and looked at me fixedly.
“You mean you will escape?” she asked, after a moment.
I nodded and smiled again.
“Oh, but you do not know,” she cried. “A man could not escape from here if he had the strength of a hundred men.”
“Nevertheless,” I began, but the hoarse voice of Mère Fouchon interrupted me.
“La Bancale,” she cried, “come here at once, and be sure to bolt the door after you.”
“I must go,” she said. “I will do what I can, Monsieur.”
I watched her as she went. So she was called La Bancale, the bandy-legged, and my eyes were wet with tears as I thought of what her life had been—of what it yet must be. She would do all she could, she had said, and yet what could she accomplish? She was so frail, so weak. Still, for a moment, I felt more hopeful. To a drowning man, even a straw is welcome. Besides, she was not without her shrewdness—witness how she had doubled on her tracks to prevent pursuit, and had finally evaded her pursuer. Or was it really a trap that had been set for me, and into which I had walked blindly?
The problem was too great a one for my wit to solve, for my head was paining me again severely. It was no light blow that had been given me, and I wondered that it had not crushed my skull. I could feel that the blood had soaked through my hair and dried about my face, but I had no way of removing it. The air of the cellar seemed foul and close; I was shivering with the cold and damp. At last, in sheer exhaustion, my head fell forward and I slept.
A touch on the arm awakened me. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing.
“Are you here, Monsieur?” a voice whispered. “Speak to me.”
“I was asleep,” I said. “Is it thou, La Bancale?”
“Oh, do not call me by that hideous name,” she sobbed.
“What shall I call you, then, my dear?”
“Anything, anything you like, Monsieur, only not that.”
“But have you no other name? Surely, you were not always called that!”
“Always, Monsieur,” she sobbed. “Ever since I can remember.”
Poor child! And she might have been a girl, happy like any other!
“Let me see,” I said, “I will call you Ninon. I have a sister named Ninon. I am sure you would love her.”
“I am sure of it also, if she is your sister, Monsieur,” she answered softly.
“How does it happen that you are here?” I asked, vaguely troubled by the tone of her voice. “Where is Mère Fouchon?”
“She went away just now, and as she said she was going to the Rue des Moulins she cannot be back for an hour at least.”
“To the Rue des Moulins?” I cried. “Oh, I must escape!” and I sprang to my feet and tugged at my chain in an ecstasy of rage. “Ninon,” I said suddenly, “could you not step into the street and say two words to a gendarme about my being here?”
“Alas, Monsieur,” she answered, “I am as much a prisoner as yourself. Mère Fouchon always locks me in when she leaves the house.”
I groaned aloud and could hear her sobbing.
“Come,” I said, mastering myself at the end of a moment, “this will not do. We must be brave. Cease crying, Ninon, and sit here beside me.”
She did as I bade, and as I passed my arm about her and drew her to me, I felt her body trembling and shaken by sobs. My lips quivered with pity as I perceived how thin she was.
“Now,” I said, “we are comfortable. Place your head against my shoulder—so. How old are you, Ninon?”
“I do not know, Monsieur.”
“Pierre is my name,” I said.
“I do not know how old I am, M. Pierre,” and it seemed to me that her voice dwelt lovingly on the word.
“And is Mère Fouchon your mother?”
“I do not know that, either, M. Pierre. Only——” and she hesitated.
“Only what, Ninon? Tell me; do not be afraid.”
“Only I hope that she is not my mother, because I hate her.”
“She has not been kind to you then, Ninon?”
“Kind to me!” and I felt her shudder. “Ah, if you knew, Monsieur! The beatings—the nights and days spent here in this cavern—sometimes I thought she would kill me. If she were my mother, she would not hate me so, would she, Monsieur?”
I held her closer to me with aching heart.
“No, she would not hate you if she were your mother, Ninon; she would love you. I am sure she is not your mother. Have you always lived here?”
“Always, Monsieur. After she became concierge, I remained here, and she came home every night.”
“She did not sleep at the Rue du Chantre, then?”
“No, never, Monsieur. Always here.”
I smiled grimly to myself at this proof that the hag had been lying to me on the night she tripped over my legs in the hallway.
“And she has never told you anything about yourself?” I continued after a moment.
“Never, Monsieur.”
“But you have asked her to tell you, have you not, Ninon?”
“Oh, yes, Monsieur, many times.”
“And how did she answer?”
“With a beating, M. Pierre.”
I drew her closer to me and gathered both her hands into my own.
“Perhaps it will not be always so,” I said gently. “Perhaps some day there will be people who will love you and who will try to make you happy.”
She was sobbing against my shoulder, her hands clutching at me nervously.
“You would go with me, Ninon, would you not,” I asked, “if I escaped from here?”
“Oh, yes, M. Pierre,” she sobbed. “I would go with you anywhere.”
“That is right,” I said, and I bent and kissed her forehead. “But first, I must escape, and in order to escape, I must be rid of this chain. Do you think you could find me a file, Ninon?”
“A file? I do not know, Monsieur. I will try. But I must go. She will soon be returning,” and she drew herself away. “If I can find a file, I will bring it to you, M. Pierre,” and a moment later, I heard the door close behind her.