A Dungeon

           

           Heheardaloudnoiseinthecorridor.Itwasnotthetimewhenthegaolerusuallycameuptohisprison.Theospreyflewawaywithashriek.Thedooropened,andthevenerablecuréChélanthrewhimselfintohisarms.Hewastremblingalloverandhadhisstickinhishands.

           "GreatGod!Isitpossible,mychildIoughttosaymonster?"

           Thegoodoldmancouldnotaddasingleword.Julienwasafraidhewouldfalldown.Hewasobligedtoleadhimtoachair.Thehandoftimelayheavyonthismanwhohadoncebeensoactive.HeseemedtoJulienthemereshadowofhisformerself.

           Whenhehadregainedhisbreath,hesaid,"ItwasonlythedaybeforeyesterdaythatIreceivedyourletterfromStrasbourgwithyourfivehundredfrancsforthepoorofVerrières.TheybroughtittomeinthemountainsatLiveruwhereIamlivinginretirementwithmynephewJean.YesterdayIlearntofthecatastrophe....Heavens,isitpossible?"Andtheoldmanleftoffweeping.Hedidnotseemtohaveanyideasleft,butaddedmechanically,"Youwillhaveneedofyourfivehundredfrancs,Iwillbringthembacktoyou."

           "Ineedtoseeyou,myfather,"exclaimedJulien,reallytouched."Ihavemoney,anyway."

           Buthecouldnotobtainanycoherentanswer.Fromtimetotime,M.Chélanshedsometearswhichcoursedsilentlydownhischeeks.HethenlookedatJulien,andwasquitedazedwhenhesawhimkisshishandsandcarrythemtohislips.Thatfacewhichhadoncebeensovivid,andwhichhadonceportrayedwithsuchvigourthemostnobleemotionswasnowsunkinaperpetualapathy.Akindofpeasantcamesoontofetchtheoldman.

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