"I trust so, for her soul's sake."
"But in that case they should have set you free."
"She may have requested it, but I am of so little importance that I was probably forgotten in the excitement of that great catastrophe."
"And so you would likewise forgive her, as you are about to die?"
"Lift me up, young man, that I may pray for both of them." And the dying man, resting in Jacques Aubry's arms, coupled the names of his protector and persecutress in the same prayer: the man who had remembered him in his affection and the woman who had never forgotten him in her hatred,—the constable and the regent.
The prisoner was right. Jacques Aubry's eyes began to become accustomed to the darkness, and he could make out the dying man's features. He was a handsome old man, much emaciated by suffering, with a white beard and a bald head,—such a head as Domenichino dreamed of when painting his Confession of Saint-Jerome.
When his prayer was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and fell back upon the bed; he had swooned.
Jacques thought that he was dead. He ran to the water-jug, however, poured some water in the hollow of his hand, and shook it over his face. The dying man returned to life once more.
"You did well to revive me, young man," said he, "and here is your reward."
"What is that?"