“Quite well, I thank you, Monsieur,” replied the young man.
The effect of the voice was such as almost to overpower Aramis, and notwithstanding his control over himself, he advanced a few steps towards him, with his eyes wide open and his lips trembling. The movement he made was so marked that Baisemeaux, notwithstanding his preoccupation, observed it. “This gentleman is an architect who has come to examine your chimney,” said Baisemeaux; “does it smoke?”
“Never, Monsieur.”
“You were saying just now,” said the governor, rubbing his hands together, “that it was not possible for a man to be happy in prison; here, however, is one who is so. You have nothing to complain of, I hope?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you ever feel weary?” said Aramis.
“Never.”
“Ha, ha,” said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of voice; “was I right?”
“Well, my dear governor, it is impossible not to yield to evidence. Is it allowed to put any question to him?”
“As many as you like.”
“Very well; be good enough to ask him if he knows why he is here.”
“This gentleman requests me to ask you,” said Baisemeaux, “if you are aware of the cause of your imprisonment?”
“No, Monsieur,” said the young man, unaffectedly, “I am not.”
“That is hardly possible,” said Aramis, carried away by his feelings in spite of himself; “if you were really ignorant of the cause of your detention, you would be furious.”
“I was so during the early days of my imprisonment.”
“Why are you not so now?”
“Because I have reflected.”
“That is strange,” said Aramis.
“Is it not odd?” said Baisemeaux.
“May one venture to ask you, Monsieur, on what you have reflected?”
“I felt that as I had committed no crime, Heaven could not punish me.”
“What is a prison, then,” inquired Aramis, “if it be not a punishment.”
“Alas! I cannot tell,” said the young man; “all that I can tell you now is the very opposite of what I felt seven years ago.”
“To hear you converse, to witness your resignation, one might almost believe that you liked your imprisonment?”
“I endure it.”
“In the certainty of recovering your freedom some day, I suppose?”
“I have no certainty; hope, I have, and that is all; and yet I acknowledge that this hope becomes less every day.”
“Still, why should you not again be free, since you have already been so?”
“That is precisely the reason,” replied the young man, “which prevents me from expecting liberty; why should I have been imprisoned at all if it had been intended to release me afterwards?”
“How old are you?”
“I do not know.”
“What is your name?”
“I have forgotten the name by which I was called.”
“Who are your parents?”
“I never knew them.”
“But those who brought you up?”
“They did not call me their son.”
“Did you ever love anyone before coming here?”
“I loved my nurse, and my flowers.”
“Was that all?”
“I also loved my valet.”
“Do you regret your nurse and your valet?”
“I wept very much when they died.”
“Did they die since you have been here, or before you came?”
“They died the evening before I was carried off.”
“Both at the same time?”
“Yes, both at the same time.”
“In what manner were you carried off?”
“A man came for me, directed me to get into a carriage, which was closed and locked, and brought me here.”
“Would you be able to recognize that man again?”
“He was masked.”
“Is this not an extraordinary tale?” said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of voice, to Aramis, who could hardly breathe.
“It is indeed extraordinary,” he murmured.
“But what is still more extraordinary is, that he has never told me so much as he has just told you.”
“Perhaps the reason may be that you have never questioned him,” said Aramis.
“It’s possible,” replied Baisemeaux; “I have no curiosity. Have you looked at the room? it’s a fine one, is it not?”
“Very much so.”
“A carpet—”
“Beautiful.”
“I’ll wager he had nothing like it before he came here.”
“I think so, too.” And then again turning towards the young man, he said, “Do you not remember to have been visited at some time or another by a strange lady or gentleman?”
“Yes, indeed; thrice by a woman, who each time came to the door in a carriage, and entered covered with a veil, which she raised when we were together and alone.”
“Do you remember that woman?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say to you?”
The young man smiled mournfully, and then replied, “She inquired, as you have just done, if I were happy, and if I were getting weary.”
“What did she do on arriving, and on leaving you?”
“She pressed me in her arms, held me in her embrace, and kissed me.”
“Do you remember her?”
“Perfectly.”
“Do you recall her features distinctly?”
“Yes.”
“You would recognize her, then, if accident brought her before you, or led you into her presence?”
“Most certainly.”
A flush of fleeting satisfaction passed across Aramis’s face. At this moment Baisemeaux heard the jailer approaching. “Shall we leave?” he said, hastily, to Aramis.
Aramis, who probably had learnt all that he cared to know, replied, “When you like.”
The young man saw them prepare to leave, and saluted them politely. Baisemeaux replied merely by a nod of the head, while Aramis, with a respect, arising perhaps from the sight of such misfortune, saluted the prisoner profoundly. They left the room, Baisemeaux closing the door behind them.
“Well,” said Baisemeaux, as they descended the staircase, “what do you think of it all?”
“I have discovered the secret, my dear governor,” he said.
“Bah! what is the secret, then?”
“A murder was
