LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

him into a low room, which only contained a table, a chair, and a commissary. The commissary was seated on the chair, and was engaged in writing at the table.

      The two guards led the prisoner to the table, and at a signal from the commissary, went out of earshot. The commissary, who had till then kept his head bent down over his papers, raised it up to see who he had before him. This commissary was a man with a very crabbed look; a sharp nose; cheeks yellow and puffed out; small, but piercing eyes; and with a countenance reminding one, at the same time, of a polecat and a fox. His head, supported by a long and flexible neck, was thrust out of his full black robe, and balanced itself with a motion very much like that of a turtle putting its head out of its shell.

      He began by asking M. Bonancieux his Christian name and surname, his age, profession, and place of abode.

      The accused replied that his name was Jacques Bonancieux, that his age was 51 years, that he was a retired mercer, and lived in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, No. 11.

      Instead of continuing his questions, the commissary then made him a long speech on the danger of an obscure citizen interfering in public affairs. With this exordium he combined an exposition of the power and actions of the cardinal—that incomparable minister, the conqueror of all preceding ministers, and the example for all future ministers—whom no one could oppose or thwart with impunity.

      After this second part of his discourse, he fixed his hawk’s eye on poor Bonancieux, and exhorted him to reflect upon the seriousness of his situation.

      This the mercer had already done: he wished M. de la Porte at the devil for having put it into his head to marry his god-daughter, and cursed the hour when that god-daughter had been received into the queen’s service.

      The foundation of M. Bonancieux’s character was profound selfishness, mingled with sordid avarice, the whole being seasoned with excessive cowardice. The love which he entertained towards his young wife was quite a secondary sentiment, and could not stand against those primary feelings which we have just enumerated.

      Bonancieux, in fact, reflected on what had been said to him.

      “But, Mr. Commissary,” he timidly observed, “believe me, that I know well and appreciate the incomparable merit of his eminence, by whom we have the honour of being governed.”

      “Really!” said the commissary; with a doubtful look; “but if this be true, how came you to be in the Bastile?”

      “How I am there, or rather, why I am there,” replied Bonancieux, “is what it is utterly impossible for me to tell you, seeing that I do not know myself; but most certainly it is not for having offended the cardinal, consciously at least.”

      “It is certain, nevertheless, that you must have committed some crime, as you are here accused of high treason.”

      “Of high treason!” cried Bonancieux, confounded; “of high treason! And how can you believe that a poor mercer, who hates the Huguenots, and abhors the Spaniards, can be accused of high treason? Reflect, sir—the thing is a moral impossibility.”

      “M. Bonancieux,” said the commissary, regarding the accused with his little eyes, as though he had the power of looking into the very depths of his heart, “M. Bonancieux, you have a wife.”

      “Yes, sir,” replied the trembling mercer, perceiving that it was on her account that he was now about to be inculpated; “that is to say, I had one.”

      “What? you had one! And what have you done with her, that you have her no longer?”

      “Some one has carried her off, sir!”

      “Some one has taken her from you?” said the commissary. “Ah!”

      Bonancieux perceived by this “ah!” that matters were getting worse and worse.

      “Some one has taken her from you,” resumed the commissary. “And do you know who has been guilty of this abduction?”

      “I think I know.”

      “Who is it?”

      “Remember that I affirm nothing, Mr. Commissary—I only suspect.”

      “Whom do you suspect? Come, don’t hesitate to speak.”

      M. Bonancieux was in the greatest perplexity. Ought he to deny everything, or to confess? From a total denial, it might be inferred that he knew too much to admit; and, by a general confession, he might give evidence of his good faith.

      He determined, therefore, to have no concealments.

      “I suspect,” said he, “a tall, dark man, of lofty air, who has all the appearance of a man of rank. He followed us, I think, many times, when I went to fetch my wife from the gate of the Louvre.”

      The commissary appeared somewhat disturbed.

      “And his name?” said he.

      “Oh! as to his name, I do not know it; but if I should meet him, I could recognise him amongst a thousand persons.”

      The brow of the commissary grew dark.

      “You could recognise him amongst a thousand, you say?” continued he.

      “That is to say,” replied Bonancieux, who saw that he had made a false step, “that is to say———”

      “You have said that you could recognise him,” said the commissary; “very well, that is enough for today; it is necessary, before we proceed any further, that some one should be informed that you know the person who has carried off your wife.”

      “But I did not tell you that I knew him!” cried M. Bonancieux, in despair. “I told you, on the contrary———”

      “Take away the prisoner!” exclaimed the commissary to the two guards.

      “Where to?” asked the registrar.

      “To a dungeon.”

      “To which?”

      “Oh! to the first that offers, provided it be secure,” answered the commissary, with an indifference which filled the breast of poor Bonancieux with horror and dismay.

      “Alas! alas!” said he, “I am undone. My wife must have committed some frightful crime; and I am supposed to be an accomplice, and shall be punished with her. She must have said something—have confessed that I was her confidant. A woman is such a weak creature! A dungeon! The first that offers! that’s it. A night is soon passed; and then, tomorrow, to the wheel, to the gibbet! Oh! my God, my God, have pity on me!”

      Without in the least attending to the lamentations of Master Bonancieux, that were of a kind to which they were tolerably well accustomed, the two guards took him by the arms, and led him away, while the commissary hastily wrote a letter, for which his officer waited.

      Bonancieux did not close an eye; not because his dungeon was very uncomfortable, but because his anxiety was very great. He sat upon his stool the whole night, trembling at every noise; and when the first rays of light penetrated his chamber, Aurora herself appeared to him to be dressed in funereal array.

      Suddenly he heard the bolts withdrawn, and gave a terrible start. He believed that they were coming to conduct him to the scaffold; and, therefore, when he saw that it was only the commissary and his attendant, he was almost ready to embrace them.

      “Your affair has become sadly complicated since last evening, my fine fellow,” said the commissary. “I advise you to tell the whole truth, for your repentance alone can mitigate the anger of the cardinal.”

      “But I am ready to tell everything,” said Bonancieux; “everything, at least, that I know; question me, I beseech you!”

      “In the first place, where is your wife?”

      “I have just told you that some one has carried her off.”

      “Yes, but since five o’clock yesterday evening, thanks to you, she has escaped.”

      “My

Скачать книгу