Adrift in Pacific and Other Great Adventures – 17 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Jules Verne
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sheath his hunting-knife, which he wore at his belt, and gripped it firmly.
If it were to be one of the Baron de Gortz’s servants who entered, he would throw himself on him, take away the keys, and make it impossible for him to follow him. And then Franz would rush along this new road and try to reach the donjon.
If it were the Baron de Gortz—and he would recognize him, although he had only seen him once, at the moment La Stilla fell on the stage of San Carlo—he would attack him without mercy.
However, the footsteps stopped on the landing which formed the outer threshold.
Franz did not move, but waited until the door was opened.
It did not open, but a voice of infinite sweetness was heard by the young count.
It was the voice of La Stilla—yes!—her voice a little weakened, her voice which had lost nothing of its inflections, of its inexpressible charm, or its caressing modulations, that admirable instrument of its marvellous art, which seemed to have died with the artiste.
And La Stilla repeated the plaintive melody which he had heard in his dream when he slept in the saloon of the inn at Werst:-
Nel giardino de’ mille fiori
Andiarno, mio cuore…
The song entered into Franz to the depths of his soul. He breathed it, he drank it like a divine liquor, while La Stilla seemed to invite him to follow her, repeating,—
Andiamo, mio cuore…andiamo.
But why did not the door open to let him through? Could he not reach her, clasp her in his arms, take her with him out of the castle?
“Stilla—my Stilla!” he shouted, and he threw himself against the door, which stood firm against his efforts.
Already the song seemed to grow fainter, the footsteps were heard going away.
Franz knelt down, trying to shake the planks, tearing his hands with the ironwork, calling all the time to La Stilla, whose voice had died away in the distance.
It was then that a terrible thought flashed through his mind.
“Mad!” he exclaimed. “She is mad, for she did not recognize me and did not reply to me. For five years she has been shut up in this castle, in the power of this man—my poor Stilla—her reason has left her!”
Then he rose, his eyes haggard, his head as if on fire.
“I also—I feel that I am going mad!” he repeated; “I am going mad—mad like her!”
He strode backwards and forwards across the crypt like a wild beast in its cage.
“No!” he repeated. “No! I must not go mad. I must get out of this castle. I will go!”
And he went towards the first door. It had just shut silently.
Franz had not noticed it while he was listening to the voice of La Stilla.
He had been imprisoned within the enclosure, and now he was a prisoner within the crypt.
CHAPTER XIV.
Franz was thoroughly astounded. As he had feared, the faculty of thinking, of comprehending matters, the intelligence necessary for him to reason on them, was gradually leaving him. The only feeling that remained was the remembrance of La Stilla, the impression of the song he had just heard, and which the echoes of this gloomy crypt no longer repeated.
Had he been the sport of an illusion? No, a thousand times no! It was indeed La Stilla he had just heard, it was indeed her he had seen on the castle bastion.
Then the thought returned to him, the thought that she was deprived of reason, and this horrible blow struck him as if he were about to go out of his mind a second time.
“Mad!” he repeated. “Yes! Mad—for she did not recognize my voice—mad—mad!”
And that seemed to be only too likely. Ah! if he could only rescue her from this place, take her to his Castle of Krajowa, devote himself entirely to her, his care and love would soon restore her to sanity.
So said Franz, a prey to a terrible delirium, and many hours went by before he was himself again.
Then he tried to reason coolly, to collect himself amid the chaos of his thoughts.
“I must get away from here,” he said. “How? As soon as they reopen that door! Yes! During my sleep they come and renew this food, I will wait—I will pretend to sleep.”
A suspicion occurred to him. The water in the jug must contain some soporific substance. If he had been plunged in this heavy sleep, in this complete unconsciousness, the duration of which he did not know, it was because he had drunk this water. Well, he would drink no more of it. He would not even touch the food on the table. Somebody would come soon and then—
Then! What did he know of it? At this moment was the sun mounting towards the zenith or sinking on the horizon? Was it day or night?
Then Franz listened for the sound of footsteps at either door. But no sound reached him. He crept along the walls of the crypt, his head burning, his eyes glaring, his ears throbbing, his breath panting amid this heavy atmosphere, which was only just renewed through the chink around the doors.
Suddenly near the angle of one of the columns on the right he felt a fresher breath than usual reach his lips.
Was there an opening here through which air came in from the outside?
Yes; there was a passage he had not noticed in the shade of the column.
To glide between the walls, to make for an indistinct clearness which seemed to come from above, was what Franz did in an instant.
There was a small court five or six yards across, with the walls a hundred feet high. It seemed to be a well which served as an outer court for this subterranean cell, and gave it a little air and light.
Franz could see it was still day. At the top of the well was a small angle of light which just shone on the upper margin.
The sun had accomplished at least half its diurnal course, for this luminous angle was slowly decreasing.
It must be about five o’clock in the afternoon. Consequently Franz must have slept for at least forty hours, and he had no doubt this must have been due to a soporific draught. As he and Rotzko had left Werst on the 11th of June, this must be the 13th which was about to finish in a few hours.
So humid was the air at the bottom of this court, that Franz breathed it deeply and felt all the better for it. But if he had hoped that an escape was possible up this long stone tube he was soon undeceived. To try and climb that smooth, lofty wall, was impracticable.
Franz returned to the interior of the crypt. As he could only get out through one of the doorways, he came to see what state they were in.
The first door-that by which he had come—was very solid and very thick, and was kept in its place on the other side by bolts working into iron staples; it was, therefore, useless to try and force it.
The second door—behind which he had heard La Stilla’s voice—did not seem to be so well preserved. The boards were rotten in places, and it might be possible to clear a way through them.
“Yes—this is the way!” said Franz, who had recovered his coolness; “this is the way!”
But he had no time to lose, as it was probable some one would enter the crypt as soon as he was supposed to be asleep under the influence of the soporific draught.
The work went on more quickly than he had expected.
The