The Ghost of Monsieur Scarron

Twenty-Eight

324 Twenty-Eight the tour de la Chapelle received the morning sunlight, whenever the day began with sunlight. it stood above the city fosse and the garden of Monsieur de Baismaux on the apron of the fortifications. the roofs and spires of the faubourg St.-antoine would have been visible for those within the tower if the windows of the apartments, one room on each floor of the tower, had not been so high and narrow. the widow Cailloué and her daughter could see only a sliver of the eastern sky. on the Friday when Jean larcher and Pierre rambault met their death there was no early sunlight. the day continued dark and cold, and the wind, drawn down the great flues of the chimney in the tour de la Chapelle, whistled and moaned, or without warning blew the ashes from the hearth into the room. at midnight the rain quieted the wind and filled the room with an increase of dampness. Saturday was another dark, cold day, and Sunday, if the sun shone elsewhere , the inhabitants of the tour de la Chapelle had no way of knowing it. on Sunday, in the early afternoon, Marianne Cailloué sat beside the bed where her mother lay. She held her mother’s hand, stroking it, and warming it with her own hands, and sometimes with her lips. She had spent almost every hour of the last two days in the same spot. 325 T H E G H O S T O F M O N S I E U R S C A R R O N in the early morning of each day her mother’s hand was cold, and the slight form beneath the covers shook with repeated chills, although her daughter squandered on the fire all the wood that Saint-roman had brought them. in the afternoon her mother’s hand grew hot and dry, and she pushed the covers from her breast, only to have her daughter replace them, gently and firmly, each time. “it’s the fever. you’ll take more cold if you expose yourself.” when Saint-roman rapped on the grille, bringing their food, she left her mother long enough to accept what he had brought, and to reply to his inquiry: “She’s quite well, but she’s tired, and bed is the only place in which she can keep warm.” on Friday night she had said this, and again on Saturday, declining his offer to fetch a doctor, and asking only for more wood. on Sunday noon she had repeated: “She is not sick; she is resting.” the turnkey did not argue the matter, and in her heart she thanked him for it. he had been much kinder all that month than she had dared to hope. he had repeatedly let her descend on fair days to the great court, and had let her walk about quite freely, save that he never let her meet, or even see, another prisoner. these periods under the sky, in the freely moving and sometimes sunny air, had kept up her courage and strength. as he had pointed out, she was only a prisoner by her own request. Monsieur du Junca had agreed that she should enjoy a privilege granted to some who were actually prisoners, the basis for the granting of such a privilege being the judgment of Monsieur du Junca. her mother, on the other hand, was not to be accorded this privilege. the old woman smiled when she heard this, and commented that she would not have availed herself of it had it been granted, and for many reasons, 326 Janet Lewis the steps to the courtyard being first among them. the smile was without bitterness, but held a faint irony and a great deal of pride. la veuve Cailloué, her daughter understood quite well, cared to accept no favors from her enemies. She did not care to put herself on view, even in that grim enclosure. She accepted her imprisonment like a religious retreat. it was possible that the kindness of Saint-roman resulted from no more than the existence of a sum of money in the keeping of Monsieur du Junca, from which he received his share. if his prisoners had been difficult or brutal he would no doubt have met them with brutality of his own. But for two women who were quiet, educated, and decent, although not...