seemed to be immersed in the sublime combinations of chess.
A strange thing is the mind, and it is wonderful what
revolutions may be wrought in it by a sign, a word, a hope.
The duke had been five years in prison, and now to him,
looking back upon them, those five years, which had passed
so slowly, seemed not so long a time as were the two days,
the forty-eight hours, which still parted him from the time
fixed for his escape. Besides, there was one thing that
engaged his most anxious thought — in what way was the
escape to be effected? They had told him to hope for it, but
had not told him what was to be hidden in the mysterious
pate. And what friends awaited him without? He had friends,
then, after five years in prison? If that were so he was
indeed a highly favored prince. He forgot that besides his
friends of his own sex, a woman, strange to say, had
remembered him. It is true that she had not, perhaps, been
scupulously faithful to him, but she had remembered him;
that was something.
So the duke had more than enough to think about; accordingly
he fared at chess as he had fared at tennis; he made blunder
upon blunder and the officer with whom he played found him
easy game.
But his successive defeats did service to the duke in one
way — they killed time for him till eight o’clock in the
evening; then would come night, and with night, sleep. So,
at least, the duke believed; but sleep is a capricious
fairy, and it is precisely when one invokes her presence
that she is most likely to keep him waiting. The duke waited
until midnight, turning on his mattress like St. Laurence on
his gridiron. Finally he slept.
But at daybreak he awoke. Wild dreams had disturbed his
repose. He dreamed that he was endowed with wings — he
wished to fly away. For a time these wings supported him,
but when he reached a certain height this new aid failed
him. His wings were broken and he seemed to sink into a
bottomless abyss, whence he awoke, bathed in perspiration
and nearly as much overcome as if he had really fallen. He
fell asleep again and another vision appeared. He was in a
subterranean passage by which he was to leave Vincennes.
Grimaud was walking before him with a lantern. By degrees
the passage narrowed, yet the duke continued his course. At
last it became so narrow that the fugitive tried in vain to
proceed. The sides of the walls seem to close in, even to
press against him. He made fruitless efforts to go on; it
was impossible. Nevertheless, he still saw Grimaud with his
lantern in front, advancing. He wished to call out to him
but could not utter a word. Then at the other extremity he
heard the footsteps of those who were pursuing him. These
steps came on, came fast. He was discovered; all hope of
flight was gone. Still the walls seemed to be closing on
him; they appeared to be in concert with his enemies. At
last he heard the voice of La Ramee. La Ramee took his hand
and laughed aloud. He was captured again, and conducted to
the low and vaulted chamber, in which Ornano, Puylaurens,
and his uncle had died. Their three graves were there,
rising above the ground, and a fourth was also there,
yawning for its ghastly tenant.
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Dumas, Alexandre – Twenty Years After
The duke was obliged to make as many efforts to awake as he
had done to go to sleep; and La Ramee found him so pale and
fatigued that he inquired whether he was ill.
“In fact,” said one of the guards who had remained in the
chamber and had been kept awake by a toothache, brought on
by the dampness of the atmosphere, “my lord has had a very
restless night and two or three times, while dreaming, he
called for help.”
“What is the matter with your highness?” asked La Ramee.
“‘Tis your fault, you simpleton,” answered the duke. “With
your idle nonsense yesterday about escaping, you worried me