Aubry, once more alone, was soon more deeply absorbed in thought than before; and the reader will agree that there was ample food for thought in his conversation with the lieutenant criminal. We hasten to say, however, that one who could have read his thoughts would have found that the situation of Ascanio and Colombe, depending as it did upon the letter in his possession, occupied the first place, and that before thinking of himself, a thing which he proposed to do in good time, he deliberated as to what was to be done for them.
He had been meditating thus for half an hour more or less, when the door of his cell opened once more, and the turnkey appeared on the threshold.
"Are you the man who sent for a priest?" he growled.
"To be sure I am," said Jacques.
"Deuce take me, if I know what they all want with a damned monk," muttered the turnkey; "but what I do know is that they can't leave a poor man in peace for five minutes. Come in, come in, father," he continued, standing aside to allow the priest to pass, "and be quick about it."
With that he closed the door, still grumbling, and left the new comer alone with the prisoner.
"Was it you who sent for me, my son?" the priest asked.
"Yes, father," replied the student.
"Do you wish to confess?"
"No, not just that: I wish to talk with you concerning a simple case of conscience."
"Say on, my son," said the priest, seating himself upon the stool, "and if any feeble light that I can give you will help you—"
"It was to ask your advice that I ventured to send for you."
"I am listening."
"Father," said Aubry, "I am a great sinner."
"Alas!" said the priest; "happy is the man who acknowledges it."
"But that is not all; not only am I a great sinner myself, as I said, but I have led others into sin."
"Is there any way of undoing the harm you have done?"
"I think so, father, I think so. She whom I dragged with me into the pit was an innocent young girl."
"You seduced her, did you?"
"Seduced; yes, father, that is the word."
"And you wish to atone for your sin?"
"That at least is my intention."
"There is but one way to do it."
"I know it well, and that is why I have been undecided so long: if there were two ways I would have chosen the other."
"You wish to marry her?"
"One moment, no! I will not lie: no, father, I do not wish to do it, but I am resigned."
"A warmer, more devoted feeling would be much better."
"What would you have, father? There are people who are born to marry, and others to remain single. Celibacy was my vocation, and nothing less than my present situation, I swear—"
"Very well, my son, the sooner the better, as you may repent of your virtuous intentions."
"What will be the earliest possible moment?" Aubry asked.
"Dame!" said the priest, "as it is a marriage in extremis , there will be no difficulty about the necessary dispensations, and I think that by day after to-morrow—"
"Day after to-morrow let it be," said the student with a sigh.
"But the young woman?"
"What of her?"
"Will she consent?"
"To what?"
"To the marriage."
"Pardieu! will she consent? That she will, with thanks. Such propositions aren't made to her every day."
"Then there is no obstacle?"
"None."
"Your parents?"
"Absent."
"And hers?"
"Unknown."
"Her name?"
"Gervaise-Perrette Popinot."
"Do you wish me to tell her of your purpose?"
"If you will kindly take that trouble, father, I shall be truly grateful."
"She shall be informed this very day."
"Tell me, father, tell me, could you possibly hand her a letter?"
"No, my son: we who are admitted to minister to the prisoners have sworn to deliver no message for them to any person until after their death. When that time comes, I will do whatever you choose."
"Thanks, it would be useless; marriage it must be, then," muttered Aubry.
"You have nothing else to say to me?"
"Nothing, except that, if you doubt the truth of what I say, and if she makes any objection to granting my request, you will find in the office of the lieutenant criminal a complaint lodged by said Gervaise-Perrette Popinot, which will prove that what I have said is the exact truth."
"Rely upon me to smooth away all obstacles," replied the priest, who realized that Jacques's proposed action was not prompted by enthusiasm for the marriage, but that he was yielding to necessity; "and two days hence—"
"Two days hence—"
"You will have restored, her honor to the woman whose honor you took from her."
"Alas!" muttered the student with a deep sigh.
"Ah, my son!" said the priest, "the more a sacrifice costs you, the greater pleasure it affords to God."
"By Mahomet's belly!" cried Jacques; "in that case God should be very grateful to me! go, father, go!"
Indeed, Jacques had had to overcome very bitter opposition in his own mind before arriving at such a resolution. As he had told Gervaise, he had inherited his antipathy to the marriage tie from his father, and nothing less than his friendship for Ascanio, and the thought that it was he who had caused his ruin, together with the incentive afforded by the noblest examples of self-sacrificing devotion to be found in history,—nothing less than all of this was necessary to bring him to the pitch of abnegation at which he had now arrived.
But, the reader may ask, where lies the connection between the marriage of Gervaise and Aubry, and the happiness of Ascanio and Colombe, and how did Aubry expect to save his friend by marrying his mistress? To such a question I can only answer that the reader lacks penetration; to which the reader may retort, to be sure, that it is not his business to have that quality. In that case, I beg him to take the trouble to read the end of this chapter, which he might have passed over had he been endowed with a more subtle intellect.
When the priest had gone, Aubry, recognizing the impossibility of drawing back, seemed to become more tranquil. It is characteristic of resolutions, even the most momentous, to bring tranquillity in their wake: the mind which has wrestled with its perplexity is at rest; the heart which has fought against its sorrow is, as it were, benumbed.
Jacques remained passive in his cell, until, having heard sounds in that occupied by Ascanio, which he supposed to be caused by the entrance of the jailer with his breakfast, he concluded that they would surely be left in peace for a few hours. He waited some little time after the noise had ceased, then crawled into his underground gallery, passed through it, and raised the mat with his head.
Ascanio's cell was plunged in most intense darkness.
Aubry called his friend's name in a low tone, but there was no reply. The cell was untenanted.
Aubry's first feeling was one of joy. Ascanio was free, and if Ascanio was free there was no need for him to—But almost immediately he remembered what was said the night before about providing him with better quarters. It was plain that the suggestion of Madame d'Etampes had been heeded, and the sounds he heard were caused by his friend's being moved.
Aubry's hope was as dazzling, therefore, but as evanescent, as a flash of lightning. He let the mat fall and crawled backward into his cell. Every source of consolation was taken from him, even the presence of the friend for whom he had sacrificed himself.
He had no resource left but reflection. But he had already reflected so long, and his reflections had led to such a disastrous result, that he preferred to sleep.
He threw himself upon his bed, and as he was very much in arrears in the matter of sleep, it was not long before he was entirely unconscious of his surroundings, notwithstanding the perturbed condition of his mind.
He dreamed that he was condemned to death and hanged; but through the deviltry of the hangman, the rope was badly greased, and his neck was not broken. He was buried in due form, none the less, and in his dream was beginning to gnaw his arms, as men buried alive always do, when the clerk, determined to have his bit of rope, came to secure it, opened the coffin in which he was immured, and restored his life and liberty.
Alas! it was only a dream, and when the student awoke his life was still in great danger, and his liberty altogether non-existent.
The evening, the night, and the next day passed away, and brought him no other visitor than his jailer. He tried to ask him a few questions, but could not extract a word from him.
In the middle of the second night, as Jacques was in the midst of his first sleep, he was awakened with a start by the grinding of his door upon its hinges. However soundly a prisoner may be sleeping, the sound of an opening door always awakens him.
The student sat up in bed.
"Up with you, and dress yourself," said the jailer's harsh voice; and Aubry could see by the light of the torch he held, the halberds of two of the provost's guards behind him.
The second branch of his order was unnecessary; as the student's bed was entirely unprovided with bedclothes, he had lain down completely dressed.
"Where do you propose to take me, pray?" demanded Jacques, still asleep with one eye.
"You are very inquisitive," said the jailer.
"But I would like to know."
"Come, come; no arguing, but follow me."
Resistance was useless, so the prisoner obeyed.
The jailer walked first, then came Aubry, and the two guards brought up the rear of the procession.
Jacques looked around with an inquietude which he did not seek to conceal. He feared a nocturnal execution; but one thing comforted him, he saw no priest or hangman.
After a few moments he found himself in the first room to which he was taken at the time of his coming to the prison; but instead of escorting him to the outer door, which he hoped for an instant that they would do, so prone to illusions does misfortune render one, his guide opened a door at one corner of the room and entered an inner corridor leading to a courtyard.
The prisoner's first thought on entering the courtyard, where he felt the fresh air and saw the starlit sky, was to fill his lungs, and lay in a stock of oxygen, not knowing when he might have another opportunity.
The next moment he noticed the ogive windows of a fourteenth century chapel on the other side of the yard, and began to suspect what was in the wind.
The truth-telling instinct of the historian compels us to state that at the thought his strength wellnigh failed him.
However, the memory of Ascanio and Colombe, and the grandeur of the self-sacrifice about to be consummated, sustained him in his distress. He walked with a firm step toward the chapel, and when he stood in the doorway everything was explained.
The priest stood by the altar; in the choir a woman was waiting; the woman was Gervaise.
Half-way up the choir he met the governor of the Châtelet.
"You desired to make reparation, before your death, to the young woman whose honor you stole from her: your request was no more than just and it is granted."
A cloud passed over the student's eyes; but he put his hand over Madame d'Etampes's letter, and his courage returned.
"Oh, my poor Jacques!" cried Gervaise, throwing herself into the student's arms: "oh, who could have dreamed that this hour which I have so longed for would strike under such circumstances!"
"What wouldst thou have, my dear Gervaise?" cried the student, receiving her upon his breast. "God knows those whom he should punish and those whom he should reward: we must submit to God's will."
"Take this," he added beneath his breath, slipping Madame d'Etampes's letter into her hand; "for Benvenuto and for him alone!"
"What's that?" exclaimed the governor, walking hastily toward them; "what's the matter!"
"Nothing; I was telling Gervaise how I love her."
"As she will not, in all probability, have time to ascertain the contrary, protestations are thrown away; go to the altar and make haste."
Aubry and Gervaise went forward in silence to the waiting priest. When they were in front of him they fell upon their knees and the mass began.
Jacques would have been very glad of an opportunity to exchange a few words with Gervaise, who, for her part, was burning up with the desire to express her gratitude to Aubry; but two guards stood beside them listening to every word and watching every movement. It was very fortunate that a momentary feeling of sympathy led the governor to allow them to exchange the embrace under cover of which the letter passed from Jacques's hands to Gervaise's. That opportunity lost, the close surveillance to which they were subjected would have rendered Jacques's devotion of no avail.
The priest had received his instructions, doubtless, for he cut his discourse very short. It may be, too, that he thought it would be trouble thrown away to enjoin due regard to his duties as a husband and father upon a man who was to be hanged within two or three days.
The discourse at an end, the benediction given, the mass said, Aubry and Gervaise thought they would be allowed to speak together privately for a moment, but not so. Despite the tears of Gervaise, who was literally dissolved in them, the guards forced them to part.
They had time, however, to exchange a glance. Aubry's said, "Remember my commission." Gervaise's replied, "Never fear; it shall be done to-night, or to-morrow at latest."
Then they were led away in opposite directions. Gervaise was politely escorted to the street door, and Jacques was politely taken back to his cell.
As the door closed upon him, he heaved a deeper sigh than any of those he had perpetrated since he entered the prison: he was married.
Thus it was that Aubry, like another Curtius, plunged headlong, through devotion, into the hymeneal gulf.