บทที่ บทที่ 40 · _LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA_—LEAVE ALL HOPE BEHIND, YE

. _LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA_—LEAVE ALL HOPE BEHIND, YE

WHO ENTER HERE.

In the Middle Ages, when an edifice was complete, there was

almost as much of it in the earth as above it. Unless built upon

piles, like Notre-Dame, a palace, a fortress, a church, had

always a double bottom. In cathedrals, it was, in some sort,

another subterranean cathedral, low, dark, mysterious, blind, and

mute, under the upper nave which was overflowing with light and

reverberating with organs and bells day and night. Sometimes it

was a sepulchre. In palaces, in fortresses, it was a prison,

sometimes a sepulchre also, sometimes both together. These mighty

buildings, whose mode of formation and _vegetation_ we have

elsewhere explained, had not simply _foundations_, but, so to

speak, roots which ran branching through the soil in chambers,

galleries, and staircases, like the construction above. Thus

churches, palaces, fortresses, had the earth half way up their

bodies. The cellars of an edifice formed another edifice, into

which one descended instead of ascending, and which extended its

subterranean grounds under the external piles of the monument,

like those forests and mountains which are reversed in the

mirror-like waters of a lake, beneath the forests and mountains

of the banks.

At the fortress of Saint-Antoine, at the Palais de Justice of

Paris, at the Louvre, these subterranean edifices were prisons.

The stories of these prisons, as they sank into the soil, grew

constantly narrower and more gloomy. They were so many zones,

where the shades of horror were graduated. Dante could never

imagine anything better for his hell. These tunnels of cells

usually terminated in a sack of a lowest dungeon, with a vat-like

bottom, where Dante placed Satan, where society placed those

condemned to death. A miserable human existence, once interred

there; farewell light, air, life, _ogni speranza_—every hope; it

only came forth to the scaffold or the stake. Sometimes it rotted

there; human justice called this _forgetting_. Between men and

himself, the condemned man felt a pile of stones and jailers

weighing down upon his head; and the entire prison, the massive

bastille was nothing more than an enormous, complicated lock,

which barred him off from the rest of the world.

It was in a sloping cavity of this description, in the

_oubliettes_ excavated by Saint-Louis, in the _inpace_ of the

Tournelle, that la Esmeralda had been placed on being condemned

to death, through fear of her escape, no doubt, with the colossal

court-house over her head. Poor fly, who could not have lifted

even one of its blocks of stone!

Assuredly, Providence and society had been equally unjust; such

an excess of unhappiness and of torture was not necessary to

break so frail a creature.

There she lay, lost in the shadows, buried, hidden, immured. Any

one who could have beheld her in this state, after having seen

her laugh and dance in the sun, would have shuddered. Cold as

night, cold as death, not a breath of air in her tresses, not a

human sound in her ear, no longer a ray of light in her eyes;

snapped in twain, crushed with chains, crouching beside a jug and

a loaf, on a little straw, in a pool of water, which was formed

under her by the sweating of the prison walls; without motion,

almost without breath, she had no longer the power to suffer;

Phœbus, the sun, midday, the open air, the streets of Paris, the

dances with applause, the sweet babblings of love with the

officer; then the priest, the old crone, the poignard, the blood,

the torture, the gibbet; all this did, indeed, pass before her

mind, sometimes as a charming and golden vision, sometimes as a

hideous nightmare; but it was no longer anything but a vague and

horrible struggle, lost in the gloom, or distant music played up

above ground, and which was no longer audible at the depth where

the unhappy girl had fallen.

Since she had been there, she had neither waked nor slept. In

that misfortune, in that cell, she could no longer distinguish

her waking hours from slumber, dreams from reality, any more than

day from night. All this was mixed, broken, floating,

disseminated confusedly in her thought. She no longer felt, she

no longer knew, she no longer thought; at the most, she only

dreamed. Never had a living creature been thrust more deeply into

nothingness.

Thus benumbed, frozen, petrified, she had barely noticed on two

or three occasions, the sound of a trapdoor opening somewhere

above her, without even permitting the passage of a little light,

and through which a hand had tossed her a bit of black bread.

Nevertheless, this periodical visit of the jailer was the sole

communication which was left her with mankind.

A single thing still mechanically occupied her ear; above her

head, the dampness was filtering through the mouldy stones of the

vault, and a drop of water dropped from them at regular

intervals. She listened stupidly to the noise made by this drop

of water as it fell into the pool beside her.

This drop of water falling from time to time into that pool, was

the only movement which still went on around her, the only clock

which marked the time, the only noise which reached her of all

the noise made on the surface of the earth.

To tell the whole, however, she also felt, from time to time, in

that cesspool of mire and darkness, something cold passing over

her foot or her arm, and she shuddered.

How long had she been there? She did not know. She had a

recollection of a sentence of death pronounced somewhere, against

some one, then of having been herself carried away, and of waking

up in darkness and silence, chilled to the heart. She had dragged

herself along on her hands. Then iron rings that cut her ankles,

and chains had rattled. She had recognized the fact that all

around her was wall, that below her there was a pavement covered

with moisture and a truss of straw; but neither lamp nor

air-hole. Then she had seated herself on that straw and,

sometimes, for the sake of changing her attitude, on the last

stone step in her dungeon. For a while she had tried to count the

black minutes measured off for her by the drop of water; but that

melancholy labor of an ailing brain had broken off of itself in

her head, and had left her in stupor.

At length, one day, or one night, (for midnight and midday were

of the same color in that sepulchre), she heard above her a

louder noise than was usually made by the turnkey when he brought

her bread and jug of water. She raised her head, and beheld a ray

of reddish light passing through the crevices in the sort of

trapdoor contrived in the roof of the _inpace_.

At the same time, the heavy lock creaked, the trap grated on its

rusty hinges, turned, and she beheld a lantern, a hand, and the

lower portions of the bodies of two men, the door being too low

to admit of her seeing their heads. The light pained her so

acutely that she shut her eyes.

When she opened them again the door was closed, the lantern was

deposited on one of the steps of the staircase; a man alone stood

before her. A monk’s black cloak fell to his feet, a cowl of the

same color concealed his face. Nothing was visible of his person,

neither face nor hands. It was a long, black shroud standing

erect, and beneath which something could be felt moving. She

gazed fixedly for several minutes at this sort of spectre. But

neither he nor she spoke. One would have pronounced them two

statues confronting each other. Two things only seemed alive in

that cavern; the wick of the lantern, which sputtered on account

of the dampness of the atmosphere, and the drop of water from the

roof, which cut this irregular sputtering with its monotonous

splash, and made the light of the lantern quiver in concentric

waves on the oily water of the pool.

At last the prisoner broke the silence.

“Who are you?”

“A priest.”

The words, the accent, the sound of his voice made her tremble.

The priest continued, in a hollow voice,—

“Are you prepared?”

“For what?”

“To die.”

“Oh!” said she, “will it be soon?”

“To-morrow.”

Her head, which had been raised with joy, fell back upon her

breast.

“’Tis very far away yet!” she murmured; “why could they not have

done it to-day?”

“Then you are very unhappy?” asked the priest, after a silence.

“I am very cold,” she replied.

She took her feet in her hands, a gesture habitual with unhappy

wretches who are cold, as we have already seen in the case of the

recluse of the Tour-Roland, and her teeth chattered.

The priest appeared to cast his eyes around the dungeon from

beneath his cowl.

“Without light! without fire! in the water! it is horrible!”

“Yes,” she replied, with the bewildered air which unhappiness had

given her. “The day belongs to every one, why do they give me

only night?”

“Do you know,” resumed the priest, after a fresh silence, “why

you are here?”

“I thought I knew once,” she said, passing her thin fingers over

her eyelids, as though to aid her memory, “but I know no longer.”

All at once she began to weep like a child.

“I should like to get away from here, sir. I am cold, I am

afraid, and there are creatures which crawl over my body.”

“Well, follow me.”

So saying, the priest took her arm. The unhappy girl was frozen

to her very soul. Yet that hand produced an impression of cold

upon her.

“Oh!” she murmured, “’tis the icy hand of death. Who are you?”

The priest threw back his cowl; she looked. It was the sinister

visage which had so long pursued her; that demon’s head which had

appeared at la Falourdel’s, above the head of her adored Phœbus;

that eye which she last had seen glittering beside a dagger.

This apparition, always so fatal for her, and which had thus

driven her on from misfortune to misfortune, even to torture,

roused her from her stupor. It seemed to her that the sort of

veil which had lain thick upon her memory was rent away. All the

details of her melancholy adventure, from the nocturnal scene at

la Falourdel’s to her condemnation to the Tournelle, recurred to

her memory, no longer vague and confused as heretofore, but

distinct, harsh, clear, palpitating, terrible. These souvenirs,

half effaced and almost obliterated by excess of suffering, were

revived by the sombre figure which stood before her, as the

approach of fire causes letters traced upon white paper with

invisible ink, to start out perfectly fresh. It seemed to her

that all the wounds of her heart opened and bled simultaneously.

“Hah!” she cried, with her hands on her eyes, and a convulsive

trembling, “’tis the priest!”

Then she dropped her arms in discouragement, and remained seated,

with lowered head, eyes fixed on the ground, mute and still

trembling.

The priest gazed at her with the eye of a hawk which has long

been soaring in a circle from the heights of heaven over a poor

lark cowering in the wheat, and has long been silently

contracting the formidable circles of his flight, and has

suddenly swooped down upon his prey like a flash of lightning,

and holds it panting in his talons.

She began to murmur in a low voice,—

“Finish! finish! the last blow!” and she drew her head down in

terror between her shoulders, like the lamb awaiting the blow of

the butcher’s axe.

“So I inspire you with horror?” he said at length.

She made no reply.

“Do I inspire you with horror?” he repeated.

Her lips contracted, as though with a smile.

“Yes,” said she, “the headsman scoffs at the condemned. Here he

has been pursuing me, threatening me, terrifying me for months!

Had it not been for him, my God, how happy it should have been!

It was he who cast me into this abyss! Oh heavens! it was he who

killed him! my Phœbus!”

Here, bursting into sobs, and raising her eyes to the priest,—

“Oh! wretch, who are you? What have I done to you? Do you then,

hate me so? Alas! what have you against me?”

“I love thee!” cried the priest.

Her tears suddenly ceased, she gazed at him with the look of an

idiot. He had fallen on his knees and was devouring her with eyes

of flame.

“Dost thou understand? I love thee!” he cried again.

“What love!” said the unhappy girl with a shudder.

He resumed,—

“The love of a damned soul.”

Both remained silent for several minutes, crushed beneath the

weight of their emotions; he maddened, she stupefied.

“Listen,” said the priest at last, and a singular calm had come

over him; “you shall know all I am about to tell you that which I

have hitherto hardly dared to say to myself, when furtively

interrogating my conscience at those deep hours of the night when

it is so dark that it seems as though God no longer saw us.

Listen. Before I knew you, young girl, I was happy.”

“So was I!” she sighed feebly.

“Do not interrupt me. Yes, I was happy, at least I believed

myself to be so. I was pure, my soul was filled with limpid

light. No head was raised more proudly and more radiantly than

mine. Priests consulted me on chastity; doctors, on doctrines.

Yes, science was all in all to me; it was a sister to me, and a

sister sufficed. Not but that with age other ideas came to me.

More than once my flesh had been moved as a woman’s form passed

by. That force of sex and blood which, in the madness of youth, I

had imagined that I had stifled forever had, more than once,

convulsively raised the chain of iron vows which bind me, a

miserable wretch, to the cold stones of the altar. But fasting,

prayer, study, the mortifications of the cloister, rendered my

soul mistress of my body once more, and then I avoided women.

Moreover, I had but to open a book, and all the impure mists of

my brain vanished before the splendors of science. In a few

moments, I felt the gross things of earth flee far away, and I

found myself once more calm, quieted, and serene, in the presence

of the tranquil radiance of eternal truth. As long as the demon

sent to attack me only vague shadows of women who passed

occasionally before my eyes in church, in the streets, in the

fields, and who hardly recurred to my dreams, I easily vanquished

him. Alas! if the victory has not remained with me, it is the

fault of God, who has not created man and the demon of equal

force. Listen. One day—”

Here the priest paused, and the prisoner heard sighs of anguish

break from his breast with a sound of the death rattle.

He resumed,—

“One day I was leaning on the window of my cell. What book was I

reading then? Oh! all that is a whirlwind in my head. I was

reading. The window opened upon a Square. I heard a sound of

tambourine and music. Annoyed at being thus disturbed in my

revery, I glanced into the Square. What I beheld, others saw

beside myself, and yet it was not a spectacle made for human

eyes. There, in the middle of the pavement,—it was midday, the

sun was shining brightly,—a creature was dancing. A creature so

beautiful that God would have preferred her to the Virgin and

have chosen her for his mother and have wished to be born of her

if she had been in existence when he was made man! Her eyes were

black and splendid; in the midst of her black locks, some hairs

through which the sun shone glistened like threads of gold. Her

feet disappeared in their movements like the spokes of a rapidly

turning wheel. Around her head, in her black tresses, there were

disks of metal, which glittered in the sun, and formed a coronet

of stars on her brow. Her dress thick set with spangles, blue,

and dotted with a thousand sparks, gleamed like a summer night.

Her brown, supple arms twined and untwined around her waist, like

two scarfs. The form of her body was surprisingly beautiful. Oh!

what a resplendent figure stood out, like something luminous even

in the sunlight! Alas, young girl, it was thou! Surprised,

intoxicated, charmed, I allowed myself to gaze upon thee. I

looked so long that I suddenly shuddered with terror; I felt that

fate was seizing hold of me.”

The priest paused for a moment, overcome with emotion. Then he

continued,—

“Already half fascinated, I tried to cling fast to something and

hold myself back from falling. I recalled the snares which Satan

had already set for me. The creature before my eyes possessed

that superhuman beauty which can come only from heaven or hell.

It was no simple girl made with a little of our earth, and dimly

lighted within by the vacillating ray of a woman’s soul. It was

an angel! but of shadows and flame, and not of light. At the

moment when I was meditating thus, I beheld beside you a goat, a

beast of witches, which smiled as it gazed at me. The midday sun

gave him golden horns. Then I perceived the snare of the demon,

and I no longer doubted that you had come from hell and that you

had come thence for my perdition. I believed it.”

Here the priest looked the prisoner full in the face, and added,

coldly,—

“I believe it still. Nevertheless, the charm operated little by

little; your dancing whirled through my brain; I felt the

mysterious spell working within me. All that should have awakened

was lulled to sleep; and like those who die in the snow, I felt

pleasure in allowing this sleep to draw on. All at once, you

began to sing. What could I do, unhappy wretch? Your song was

still more charming than your dancing. I tried to flee.

Impossible. I was nailed, rooted to the spot. It seemed to me

that the marble of the pavement had risen to my knees. I was

forced to remain until the end. My feet were like ice, my head

was on fire. At last you took pity on me, you ceased to sing, you

disappeared. The reflection of the dazzling vision, the

reverberation of the enchanting music disappeared by degrees from

my eyes and my ears. Then I fell back into the embrasure of the

window, more rigid, more feeble than a statue torn from its base.

The vesper bell roused me. I drew myself up; I fled; but alas!

something within me had fallen never to rise again, something had

come upon me from which I could not flee.”

He made another pause and went on,—

“Yes, dating from that day, there was within me a man whom I did

not know. I tried to make use of all my remedies. The cloister,

the altar, work, books,—follies! Oh, how hollow does science

sound when one in despair dashes against it a head full of

passions! Do you know, young girl, what I saw thenceforth between

my book and me? You, your shade, the image of the luminous

apparition which had one day crossed the space before me. But

this image had no longer the same color; it was sombre, funereal,

gloomy as the black circle which long pursues the vision of the

imprudent man who has gazed intently at the sun.

“Unable to rid myself of it, since I heard your song humming ever

in my head, beheld your feet dancing always on my breviary, felt

even at night, in my dreams, your form in contact with my own, I

desired to see you again, to touch you, to know who you were, to

see whether I should really find you like the ideal image which I

had retained of you, to shatter my dream, perchance, with

reality. At all events, I hoped that a new impression would

efface the first, and the first had become insupportable. I

sought you. I saw you once more. Calamity! When I had seen you

twice, I wanted to see you a thousand times, I wanted to see you

always. Then—how stop myself on that slope of hell?—then I no

longer belonged to myself. The other end of the thread which the

demon had attached to my wings he had fastened to his foot. I

became vagrant and wandering like yourself. I waited for you

under porches, I stood on the lookout for you at the street

corners, I watched for you from the summit of my tower. Every

evening I returned to myself more charmed, more despairing, more

bewitched, more lost!

“I had learned who you were; an Egyptian, Bohemian, gypsy,

zingara. How could I doubt the magic? Listen. I hoped that a

trial would free me from the charm. A witch enchanted Bruno

d’Ast; he had her burned, and was cured. I knew it. I wanted to

try the remedy. First I tried to have you forbidden the square in

front of Notre-Dame, hoping to forget you if you returned no

more. You paid no heed to it. You returned. Then the idea of

abducting you occurred to me. One night I made the attempt. There

were two of us. We already had you in our power, when that

miserable officer came up. He delivered you. Thus did he begin

your unhappiness, mine, and his own. Finally, no longer knowing

what to do, and what was to become of me, I denounced you to the

official.

“I thought that I should be cured like Bruno d’Ast. I also had a

confused idea that a trial would deliver you into my hands; that,

as a prisoner I should hold you, I should have you; that there

you could not escape from me; that you had already possessed me a

sufficiently long time to give me the right to possess you in my

turn. When one does wrong, one must do it thoroughly. ’Tis

madness to halt midway in the monstrous! The extreme of crime has

its deliriums of joy. A priest and a witch can mingle in delight

upon the truss of straw in a dungeon!

“Accordingly, I denounced you. It was then that I terrified you

when we met. The plot which I was weaving against you, the storm

which I was heaping up above your head, burst from me in threats

and lightning glances. Still, I hesitated. My project had its

terrible sides which made me shrink back.

“Perhaps I might have renounced it; perhaps my hideous thought

would have withered in my brain, without bearing fruit. I thought

that it would always depend upon me to follow up or discontinue

this prosecution. But every evil thought is inexorable, and

insists on becoming a deed; but where I believed myself to be all

powerful, fate was more powerful than I. Alas! ’tis fate which

has seized you and delivered you to the terrible wheels of the

machine which I had constructed doubly. Listen. I am nearing the

end.

“One day,—again the sun was shining brilliantly—I behold a man

pass me uttering your name and laughing, who carries sensuality

in his eyes. Damnation! I followed him; you know the rest.”

He ceased.

The young girl could find but one word:

“Oh, my Phœbus!”

“Not that name!” said the priest, grasping her arm violently.

“Utter not that name! Oh! miserable wretches that we are, ’tis

that name which has ruined us! or, rather we have ruined each

other by the inexplicable play of fate! you are suffering, are

you not? you are cold; the night makes you blind, the dungeon

envelops you; but perhaps you still have some light in the bottom

of your soul, were it only your childish love for that empty man

who played with your heart, while I bear the dungeon within me;

within me there is winter, ice, despair; I have night in my soul.

“Do you know what I have suffered? I was present at your trial. I

was seated on the official’s bench. Yes, under one of the

priests’ cowls, there were the contortions of the damned. When

you were brought in, I was there; when you were questioned, I was

there.—Den of wolves!—It was my crime, it was my gallows that I

beheld being slowly reared over your head. I was there for every

witness, every proof, every plea; I could count each of your

steps in the painful path; I was still there when that ferocious

beast—oh! I had not foreseen torture! Listen. I followed you to

that chamber of anguish. I beheld you stripped and handled, half

naked, by the infamous hands of the tormentor. I beheld your

foot, that foot which I would have given an empire to kiss and

die, that foot, beneath which to have had my head crushed I

should have felt such rapture,—I beheld it encased in that

horrible boot, which converts the limbs of a living being into

one bloody clod. Oh, wretch! while I looked on at that, I held

beneath my shroud a dagger, with which I lacerated my breast.

When you uttered that cry, I plunged it into my flesh; at a

second cry, it would have entered my heart. Look! I believe that

it still bleeds.”

He opened his cassock. His breast was in fact, mangled as by the

claw of a tiger, and on his side he had a large and badly healed

wound.

The prisoner recoiled with horror.

“Oh!” said the priest, “young girl, have pity upon me! You think

yourself unhappy; alas! alas! you know not what unhappiness is.

Oh! to love a woman! to be a priest! to be hated! to love with

all the fury of one’s soul; to feel that one would give for the

least of her smiles, one’s blood, one’s vitals, one’s fame, one’s

salvation, one’s immortality and eternity, this life and the

other; to regret that one is not a king, emperor, archangel, God,

in order that one might place a greater slave beneath her feet;

to clasp her night and day in one’s dreams and one’s thoughts,

and to behold her in love with the trappings of a soldier and to

have nothing to offer her but a priest’s dirty cassock, which

will inspire her with fear and disgust! To be present with one’s

jealousy and one’s rage, while she lavishes on a miserable,

blustering imbecile, treasures of love and beauty! To behold that

body whose form burns you, that bosom which possesses so much

sweetness, that flesh palpitate and blush beneath the kisses of

another! Oh heaven! to love her foot, her arm, her shoulder, to

think of her blue veins, of her brown skin, until one writhes for

whole nights together on the pavement of one’s cell, and to

behold all those caresses which one has dreamed of, end in

torture! To have succeeded only in stretching her upon the

leather bed! Oh! these are the veritable pincers, reddened in the

fires of hell. Oh! blessed is he who is sawn between two planks,

or torn in pieces by four horses! Do you know what that torture

is, which is imposed upon you for long nights by your burning

arteries, your bursting heart, your breaking head, your

teeth-knawed hands; mad tormentors which turn you incessantly, as

upon a red-hot gridiron, to a thought of love, of jealousy, and

of despair! Young girl, mercy! a truce for a moment! a few ashes

on these live coals! Wipe away, I beseech you, the perspiration

which trickles in great drops from my brow! Child! torture me

with one hand, but caress me with the other! Have pity, young

girl! Have pity upon me!”

The priest writhed on the wet pavement, beating his head against

the corners of the stone steps. The young girl gazed at him, and

listened to him.

When he ceased, exhausted and panting, she repeated in a low

voice,—

“Oh my Phœbus!”

The priest dragged himself towards her on his knees.

“I beseech you,” he cried, “if you have any heart, do not repulse

me! Oh! I love you! I am a wretch! When you utter that name,

unhappy girl, it is as though you crushed all the fibres of my

heart between your teeth. Mercy! If you come from hell I will go

thither with you. I have done everything to that end. The hell

where you are, shall be paradise; the sight of you is more

charming than that of God! Oh! speak! you will have none of me? I

should have thought the mountains would be shaken in their

foundations on the day when a woman would repulse such a love.

Oh! if you only would! Oh! how happy we might be. We would flee—I

would help you to flee,—we would go somewhere, we would seek that

spot on earth, where the sun is brightest, the sky the bluest,

where the trees are most luxuriant. We would love each other, we

would pour our two souls into each other, and we would have a

thirst for ourselves which we would quench in common and

incessantly at that fountain of inexhaustible love.”

She interrupted with a terrible and thrilling laugh.

“Look, father, you have blood on your fingers!”

The priest remained for several moments as though petrified, with

his eyes fixed upon his hand.

“Well, yes!” he resumed at last, with strange gentleness, “insult

me, scoff at me, overwhelm me with scorn! but come, come. Let us

make haste. It is to be to-morrow, I tell you. The gibbet on the

Grève, you know it? it stands always ready. It is horrible! to

see you ride in that tumbrel! Oh mercy! Until now I have never

felt the power of my love for you.—Oh! follow me. You shall take

your time to love me after I have saved you. You shall hate me as

long as you will. But come. To-morrow! to-morrow! the gallows!

your execution! Oh! save yourself! spare me!”

He seized her arm, he was beside himself, he tried to drag her

away.

She fixed her eye intently on him.

“What has become of my Phœbus?”

“Ah!” said the priest, releasing her arm, “you are pitiless.”

“What has become of Phœbus?” she repeated coldly.

“He is dead!” cried the priest.

“Dead!” said she, still icy and motionless “then why do you talk

to me of living?”

He was not listening to her.

“Oh! yes,” said he, as though speaking to himself, “he certainly

must be dead. The blade pierced deeply. I believe I touched his

heart with the point. Oh! my very soul was at the end of the

dagger!”

The young girl flung herself upon him like a raging tigress, and

pushed him upon the steps of the staircase with supernatural

force.

“Begone, monster! Begone, assassin! Leave me to die! May the

blood of both of us make an eternal stain upon your brow! Be

thine, priest! Never! never! Nothing shall unite us! not hell

itself! Go, accursed man! Never!”

The priest had stumbled on the stairs. He silently disentangled

his feet from the folds of his robe, picked up his lantern again,

and slowly began the ascent of the steps which led to the door;

he opened the door and passed through it.

All at once, the young girl beheld his head reappear; it wore a

frightful expression, and he cried, hoarse with rage and

despair,—

“I tell you he is dead!”

She fell face downwards upon the floor, and there was no longer

any sound audible in the cell than the sob of the drop of water

which made the pool palpitate amid the darkness.