Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [207]
I presume that you have already separated him from all that might have anything to do with a uniform. “Toussaint” is his name; it is the sole appellation which should be given him . . . When he boasts of having been a general, he does nothing but recall his crimes, his hideous conduct, and his tyranny over Europeans. So he only deserves the most profound contempt for his ridiculous pride.
I salute you . . .
Baille released the letter; the edges of the sweat dampened sheet curled toward the center. He turned his face to the window again. Beyond, the last redness of the sun blazed on the ice of the opposite peak. Very soon the dark and deeper cold would follow.
“Franz!” he called. In the doorway appeared his senior corporal. “Go to the kitchen and take the prisoner Toussaint his evening ration. Take two men with you and leave them both without the door. The door must be locked while you are in the cell, and do not fail to lock every door along the corridor as you pass through it—both in entering and retiring.”
“That is as usual, sir,” Franz said. “You will not come?”
Insolence. “I will come later. I will choose my time. But tell them I will dine myself as soon as may be. Let them send me some warmed wine, if there is any potable, at once.”
Having eaten rapidly and heavily, Baille sent out with his dishes the order that he should not be disturbed. He undressed only partially and took to his couch. Some hours later, he woke with a start, heart pounding, bile rising in his throat. The buttons of his trousers gouged uncomfortably into the folds of flesh below his navel. The castle bell had just struck two, though he’d only heard the echo of that clanging. Outdoors there was the boot-scuffle sound of the changing of the guard.
Baille rose, dashed water on his face from the jug, smoothed back lank strands of hair on his head. He pulled on his own boots and shrugged into his coat. His heart still fluttered disagreeably, but he thought he might soon pass on this sensation to the prisoner.
Franz was unhappy to be roused at this hour; he obeyed, but sullenly. Tonight, Baille turned out two extra members of the guard. They tramped through the lower corridors, torches held high, splashing when they crossed the wobbly planks that bridged the standing water in the penultimate vault, skimmed over now with a skein of ice. Baille left two men outside the door, entering with Franz and one other.
Toussaint sat up in his bed, looking at them alertly, out of his silence; he showed no sign of confusion, though he did seem shriveled, with the thin blanket clutched around his shoulders. He wore his clothes to bed, even his coat, Baille noted with some disappointment. No doubt it was for greater warmth.
“Build up the fire,” he said to Franz. “For better light,” he added. As Franz moved toward the hearth, Baille turned, drawing the key from his waistcoat pocket to double-lock the door.
“You squander my firewood, with which you are of late so stingy,” Toussaint said. “What do you mean by this intrusion? It is hours yet before day.”
He knows the time, Baille thought, with or without a watch or a wooden clock. Of course Toussaint could hear the bells as plainly as anyone else in the castle.
“New orders,” Baille said. “You must be searched.”
Toussaint passed a spidery hand across his mouth. Were the fingers slightly trembling? No.
“For what?” he said. The crooked smile, thrusting out his long lower jaw. “I have perhaps concealed here some swords and pistols,