CHAPTER XIII
A NIGHT OF AGONY
I sat for a long time pondering over the unhappy fate of this child. What her story had been I could only guess. Stolen, doubtless, by this devil in whose care she was—brought up, certainly, in the midst of filth and shame; stunted, tortured, misshapen—until she had become a mere fungus of humanity, growing only in the dark, without blood or healthy vigor—a hideous travesty upon girlhood and womanhood. The horror and sadness of the thing moved me strangely—yet had I not seen a thousand such during those hours I had spent in the slums?
But Ninon—would she bear transplanting into other soil? I doubted it, yet it seemed to me that death itself were preferable a thousand times to such a life as this. At least, God willing, I would make the trial.
So the hours dragged on. Sometimes I dozed; more often I sat plunged in gloomy thought, trying in vain to work out the problem of escape. At last the door opened again, and Ninon brought me another plate of meat and a can of water.
“I know where there is a file, M. Pierre,” she whispered, as she set them down. “I will try to get it when Mère Fouchon goes out again.”
I pressed her hand for answer, and was glad that I had said nothing, for at that moment the woman herself appeared at the door with her lantern. She motioned the girl to leave, and herself sat down on the dirt-heap opposite me.
I looked at her with astonishment, for her eyes were gleaming and her withered face was distorted with a malignant joy.
“Well, Monsieur,” she said after a moment, “it seems that I must take leave of you sooner than I had thought.”
“And why?” I asked, with a sinking heart.
“My business is finished,” she answered. “Ribaut was more reasonable than I had hoped. I regret that I did not ask for twenty thousand crowns instead of ten. Ah, there was a pretty scene! You should have seen him—you who love him no more than I. It warmed my heart. He raved; he swore. He foamed at the mouth, his face grew purple, just as though he were about to have a fit. But he calmed down when he found me inexorable. The girl was cheap at the price, and he knew it. So we soon came to terms.”
“He has paid you the money, then?”
“He will do so in the morning.”
“And you have given him back his niece?”
She laughed harshly.
“What do you take me for, Monsieur?” she asked. “A fool? No, no. M. Ribaut will get his niece ten minutes after he has given me the money!”
I could find nothing to say, but sat looking at her in dazed bewilderment and despair.
“It is all arranged,” she continued. “At six o’clock I am to receive ten thousand crowns, in return for which I turn over to him this pretty Nanette. Then I say good-by to Paris and to Mère Fouchon. Ah, do not fear; I shall not forget you, Monsieur. I have the dose here,” and she drew a little vial from the bosom of her dress. “When the door has closed for the last time, Monsieur, I should advise you to drink it at once. It is the easiest way, much pleasanter than starving.”
Still I said nothing.
“Ah, I forgot one thing,” she added, pausing as she turned to go. “At nine o’clock to-morrow morning at the church of St. Landry there will be a ceremony, Monsieur—such a charming ceremony. Can you not guess what? Well, I will tell you. At this ceremony, that pretty little Nanette, whom you love so much, will be transformed into Mme. Jean Briquet.”
I dashed at her with an oath, but the chain jerked me back against the wall. She stood for a moment and laughed at me.
“You see now, Monsieur, do you not, how much wiser it will be to drain that little vial without delay? Suppose you play the coward—suppose you are alive at nine o’clock—you here in this hole, looking death in the face—this enchanting Nanette before the altar looking into the face of her husband! Bah!” and she made a sudden grimace. “I think I should prefer your part, Monsieur. Death itself must be less hideous than Jean Briquet. All the same,” she added, “you will do well to drink with a steady hand—you will find it a pleasant death—a dropping to sleep, sweet dreams, and then—darkness. I know. I have seen others, happy, smiling, sink into the abyss. I will have La Bancale give it to you in the morning,” and she was gone.
I sank down against the wall, dazed at this new stroke of fortune. Give me a day, two days, and escape might be possible—but the bargain had been made; in a few hours it would be too late.
How long I lay there in a half-stupor I do not know, but at last I heard the door open again and Ninon’s voice whispering my name. I groaned for reply.
“Oh, M. Pierre,” she whispered, bending over me, “I have the file. Here is the file.”
“The file!” I cried. “Oh, give it me, Ninon! There is not a moment to lose.”
She placed her trembling hand in mine and gave me the file. I ran my fingers over it. It was old, rusty, dull—but it had been a good file, once; doubtless part of some long-dead burglar’s kit—would it do the work? In an agony of haste I ran my hand along the chain until I found what seemed the weakest link, and set to work upon it. At the end of a few minutes I found I had made a scratch in the iron, and hope began to revive in my heart. The sound of sobbing startled me.
“Is it you, Ninon?” I whispered. “Forgive me, my dear; I had forgot to thank you.”
“Oh, it is not that, M. Pierre,” she sobbed. “It is not that!”
“Here, sit beside me,” I said. “Let me put my arm around you—so. Now, tell me what it is.”
She was silent a moment, and I could feel her little body quivering.
“Oh, M. Pierre,” she whispered at last, “I heard all that Mère Fouchon said this afternoon,” and I raised my hand to her face to find it wet with tears.
“Well,” I said, “what then, Ninon?”
“And do you love her so very much, this Nanette?”
“Yes, very much, Ninon.”
“Enough to die for her, perhaps?”
“Oh, yes,” I answered. “To die for her were nothing, Ninon.”
“That is right, M. Pierre,” she whispered, and her voice was shaking. “That is the way to love. I have seen her. She is pretty, oh, so pretty, even though her eyes were red with weeping. Tell me, M. Pierre, must one be pretty to be loved?”
“Oh, no, Ninon,” I said. “One needs only to be good. You are good, Ninon, and there will be somebody some day who will love you and who will make you happy.”
She said nothing for a moment, as though pondering this answer.
“No, there never will be any one, M. Pierre,” she said at last, with a little sigh. “But this Nanette—ah, she is adorable. She heard your voice when you came in that night, calling her name. She thinks you dead, M. Pierre. They have told her that you are dead, that you were killed that night. I believe she loves you also, she has wept so much.”
“Oh, if I am only in time,” I said, trembling with apprehension, and I picked up my chain again.
“Yes, I will go,” said the girl; and then, “will you do something for me, M. Pierre?”
“You have only to name it, Ninon.”
“Kiss me good-by, Monsieur. You may not have time in the morning.”
“But I am coming back for you, Ninon,” I cried. “It is not good-by. You are to live with us always.”
“No, no,” and she was sobbing again. “That cannot be. I am not of your world, Monsieur. I am of the darkness. I could not bear the light. I am hideous, Monsieur—I know it.”
“Come here, Ninon,” I whispered. “I will kiss you good-night, not good-by. You shall be pretty, Ninon, when you live surrounded by our love, as you are going to live.”
She pressed her lips to mine, and then went away, still sobbing softly. As the door closed, I set to work again at my chain, knowing that no sound I might make could penetrate those massive walls. The hours passed, my hands were torn and bleeding, but still I urged the file back and forth across the iron. The cut in the link was slowly growing deeper—but, oh, so slowly. At last it was almost through, and I paused from sheer exhaustion. My brain was reeling and my hands were shaking like those of a man with palsy. I laid my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. Tired nature conquered and I fell asleep.
“Oh, M. Pierre,” cried a voice in my ear, “you have slept!”
I opened my eyes with a start. It was Ninon, this time with a lantern.
“You have slept!” she cried again. “You have not severed the chain. It is morning, and you will be too late!”
“Too late, yes, too late!” I cried. “And all because of my accursed weakness!” and I picked up my chain and tore at it like a madman.
“She has gone away,” cried Ninon. “She said she would be back in an hour. She took Nanette with her. When she returns we are to leave Paris.”
I groaned. My hands were trembling so I could not control them. I tried to pick up the file and found that I could not hold it.
“It is too late,” I groaned. “Did she tell you to give me a vial, Ninon?”
“Yes, yes,” she cried. “Here it is,” and she held it up.
“Give it to me,” I said, and reached for it.
“What is it, M. Pierre?” she asked, springing back, her eyes large with terror.
“No matter,” I answered. “Give it me, Ninon. It is the easiest way.”
“No, no! Be a man, Monsieur! Oh, you are a man—such a brave man!” and she raised the vial and dashed it against the wall. It broke with a little crash. The liquid trickled down over the stones and filled the cell with a pleasant, sweetish odor.
“Give me the file,” she said, and took it from my palsied hand. “Do not despair, Monsieur, there is yet time,” and she was filing away at the chain with all her little strength. “Oh, I was wrong to say you slept. See, it is almost through. In half an hour it will be quite through, and you will be free.”
Back and forth the file went. I watched her stupidly, and saw without understanding it that her hands turned red and that the chain was wet with blood.
“Think of Nanette, M. Pierre,” she said, looking up for a moment into my eyes. “Think of Nanette, that dear Nanette, whom you are going to rescue presently—whom you are going to make so happy.”
I was sobbing wildly, out of sheer weakness.
“Hasten!” I whispered. “Oh, hasten, Ninon!”
She sprang to her feet with a little cry of triumph.
“It is done!” she cried. “The chain is through. Take hold here, Monsieur. Now pull. Pull with all your might. Ah!”
The chain was broken, I staggered towards the outer door like a drunken man.
“Free!” I muttered to myself. “Free!” and I reeled through the door into the outer room.
Ninon was beside me, her finger on her lips, her face white with fear.
“Hush,” she whispered. “I hear footsteps. She is returning. Perhaps there are others with her. In here, quick,” and before I could resist, even if in my great weakness I had thought of resistance, she pushed me into a little closet, just as Mère Fouchon unlocked the outer door and entered.