# The Story of Manon Lescaut and of the Chevalier des Grieux/Chapter 10

Chapter X.
The Father Superior sent word to Tiberge of my desire to have an interview with him. That faithful friend had not so completely lost sight of me as to be ignorant of my adventure. He knew that I was at St. Lazare; and probably did not view altogether with regret a disgrace which he thought might result in my reformation. He lost no time in responding to my summons.
Our conversation was friendly in the extreme. He was anxious to know my present frame of mind, and I opened my heart to him without reserve, save on the subject of my contemplated flight.
"In your eyes, dear friend," I said to him, "I do not wish to appear other than I am. If you hoped to find here ​a friend of virtuous inclinations and well-controlled desires—a libertine awakened by divine chastisement to a sense of his errors—in a word, a heart freed from the bondage of love and disenchanted with the charms of its Manon—then, frankly, you have judged of me too favorably. As I was when you left me four months ago, so you see me now, still in love, and still made miserable by that fatal attachment, from which, nevertheless, I do not despair of deriving happiness in the end!"
He replied that this avowal showed me to be in a condition of mind that was utterly inexcusable. "There are, indeed," he said, "many sinners who become so intoxicated with the delusive happiness of vice, as to openly prefer it to the true happiness of virtue; but they cling to what is, at any rate, a semblance of felicity, and are the dupes of appearances. But, to recognize, as you do, that the object of your affections can only lead you into guilt and misery—and to persist in voluntarily plunging into an abyss of crime and sorrow, is a contradiction of thought and conduct which does small honor to your powers of reason."
"Ah, Tiberge!" responded I, "'tis easy for you to conquer when your arms are unopposed! Let me now argue in my turn. Can you pretend that what you call the happiness of virtue is exempt from sufferings, from disap​pointments, and from cares? In what category, then, do you place the dungeon and the cross, all the horrors of torture and persecution at the hands of tyrants? Do you think, with the Mystics, that whatever torments the body is bliss for the soul? No; you would not venture to uphold so indefensible a paradox. This happiness, then, which you extol so highly, is mingled with innumerable ills; or, to speak more accurately, is but a tangled web of miseries, through which men struggle toward felicity. Now, granting that the force of imagination can transmute into joys these very evils themselves, from the fact that through them may be attained the coveted goal of happiness—why should you regard as contradictory and irrational an entirely similar spirit in the course that I pursue? I love Manon: I struggle onward, through countless sufferings, toward a life of happiness and peace at her side. The path which I tread is a thorny one; but the hope of reaching my goal sheds gladness on it all the way; and I should hold myself only too richly repaid, by one moment spent with her, for all the sorrows I am enduring to win her. It seems to me, therefore, that all considerations are equal, on your side and on mine; or, if there be any difference, it is rather in my favor—as the happiness for which I hope is near at hand, and the other is ​remote; and as mine is of the same nature as my sufferings—that is, physically perceptible; while the nature of the other is unknown, and ascertainable only by faith."
Tiberge appeared to be horrified by this reasoning. Recoiling some paces, he told me very gravely that what I had just said not only outraged common-sense, but was a miserable sophism of impiety and unbelief: "For," he added, "to compare, as you do, the aim of your sufferings with that which Religion sets before us, is an idea of the most monstrous and irreligious kind."
"I admit," was my reply, "that it is not justifiable; but, you will please be careful to observe, it is not upon that comparison that my argument rests. My object was to explain what you regard as the inconsistency of my perseverance in an ill-starred love; and I think I have proved very conclusively that, if inconsistency there be, you escape it no better than myself. It was in this respect alone that I treated the considerations on either side as equal; and I still maintain that they are so. Do you reply that the goal of Virtue is infinitely loftier than that of Love? Who but will admit it? Is that the point in question, however? Are we not at present concerned with the power which they respectively possess of rendering suffering endurable?
"Let us judge by results. How many deserters do we find from strict Virtue, and how few from Love! Do I hear you answer that although, in the practice of Virtue, there are trials to be endured, they are not essential or inevitable; that both Tyrant and Cross have long since disappeared, and that many pious and virtuous people are to be seen in the enjoyment of peaceful and happy lives? My rejoinder is that there are instances, also, of calm and contented love; and, let me add, as another point of difference that is greatly in my favor, that Love, treacherous ​as it often is, holds out the promise of nothing but joy and pleasure, whereas Religion presents for our anticipation a round of sombre and irksome observances.
"Do not be alarmed," I hastened to add, for I saw that his piety was on the point of taking umbrage, "the only conclusion which I mean to draw now is that there can be no worse method of exorcising love from a man's heart than to decry its delights to him and to promise him greater gratification in the pursuit of Virtue. Constituted as we are, there is no disputing the fact that our happiness consists in pleasure; I defy any one to form any other conception of it. Now, the moment the heart is consulted, it will testify that of all possible pleasures, the most exquisite are those of love. To promise it deeper joys from any other source is but to delude it, as it quickly discovers; and such deception inclines it to distrust even the most positive assurances.
"To all preachers, therefore, who would reclaim me to virtue, I say: Tell me, if you will, that it is of all things the most indispensably necessary; but do not disguise the fact that its requirements are austere and rigorous. Prove beyond all question that the delights of love are fleeting; that they are forbidden; that indulgence in them will be followed by eternal punishment; prove—what will, per​haps, impress me even more—that the sweeter and more enchanting they are, the more bountiful will Heaven be in rewarding a sacrifice so hard to make; but at least admit that, while human hearts beat in our bosoms, these same joys of love constitute the most perfect felicity we can know upon this earth !"
These concluding words of mine restored Tiberge's good humor. He owned that my views were not altogether unreasonable, and advanced no objection to them beyond asking me why it was that I did not at least follow out my own principles, by sacrificing my love for the hope of that reward which, according to my conceptions of it, would be so great.
"Ah! my dear friend," was my reply, "that is just where I recognize my own miserable weakness. Alas, yes! It is my duty to act in accordance with my reasoning; but to do so requires a strength I do not possess; and powerful, indeed, must be the aid which would make it possible for me to banish Manon's charms from my memory!"
"Another of the Jansenist brood, as I live!" exclaimed Tiberge.
"I do not know what I am," was my reply; "nor is it very clear to me what one ought to be; but I am now ex​periencing only too profoundly the truth of that doctrine of theirs."
This conversation served, at all events, to revive my friend's compassion for me. He perceived that my laxity of morals was the outcome of weakness rather than of depravity, and this made him more willing in after days to render me assistance without which I should inevitably have perished in misery.
I did not, however, give him the least inkling of my design of escaping from St. Lazare. I merely asked him to undertake the delivery of my letter. I had prepared it before he came, and found no lack of pretexts to lend color to my necessity for writing. He faithfully carried it to its address, and before the close of the day Lescaut received the one intended for him.
He came on the following day to see me, and was successful in passing himself off as my brother. My joy knew no bounds when I saw him enter my room. Carefully closing the door, I said to him: "Do not let us waste a moment. First give me some news of Manon, and then let me have your best advice as to how to shake off my fetters."
He assured me that he had not seen his sister since the day before my imprisonment. Only by dint of the most ​diligent inquiry had he been able, he said, to ascertain her fate and my own; and he had presented himself at the Hôpital two or three times without being able to obtain permission to speak to her.
"Dearly will I make that villain G——— M——— pay for this!" exclaimed I.
"As to setting you free," continued Lescaut, "that is a more difficult undertaking than you imagine. Two of my friends and I spent last evening examining the exterior of this establishment in every part, and we came to the conclusion that, your windows opening, as you mentioned in your letter, on a court-yard surrounded by buildings, it would be no easy task to get you out. You are, moreover, on the third story; and it would be quite impossible for us to smuggle either ropes or ladders in here. Nothing, therefore, can be accomplished from the outside, as far as I can see; and we must hit upon some scheme that can be carried into effect in the house itself."
"No," I replied; "I have considered everything, especially since the strictness of my confinement has been somewhat relaxed by the indulgence of the Superior. The door of my room is no longer kept locked, and I am at liberty to walk about the galleries used by the priests. All the stairways are cut off, however, by heavy doors which are kept carefully closed day and night, so that it is impossible for me to effect my escape by the exercise of ingenuity alone. But wait," I added, after thinking for a moment over an idea which struck me as an excellent one; "could you bring me a pistol?"
"Certainly," replied Lescaut, "but do you mean to commit murder?"
I assured him that I had so little intention of killing any one that the pistol need not even be loaded." Bring it to me to-morrow," I continued, "and do not fail to be ​opposite the entrance of this building", with two or three of our friends, at eleven o'clock to-morrow night. I hope to be able to join you there."
He urged me in vain to give him some further particulars of my project. I told him that an attempt such as the one I contemplated making could not but appear foolhardy until after it had succeeded. I begged him to shorten his visit in order that he might have less difficulty in obtaining permission to see me the next day.
He was admitted as readilv as he had been on the first occasion. The serious and dignified demeanor which he assumed would have made him pass anywhere for a person of the utmost respectability.
Once furnished with the instrument of my release, I scarcely felt any doubt as to the success of my scheme. It was a strange and audacious one; but what was I not capable of with the motives that inspired me?
Since I had been permitted to leave my room and walk about the galleries, I had noticed that every night the porter was in the habit of taking the keys of all the doors to the Superior, and that afterwards a profound silence reigned throughout the house, which showed that every one had retired to rest.
By passing through a gallery of communication I could go from my own room to the Superior's without en​countering any obstacle. My plan was to take the keys from him, intimidating him with my pistol if he made any difficulty about surrendering them, and then to use them in gaining the street. I waited impatiently for the proper moment to arrive. The porter made his appearance at his usual time—a little after nine o'clock. I allowed another hour to pass in order to be sure that all the priests and servants were asleep, and then, taking my weapon and a lighted candle, I sallied forth.
I first knocked gently at the Superior's door, in order to awaken him with as little noise as possible. He did not hear me until I had rapped a second time, and then, doubtless supposing it was one of the priests who had been taken ill and needed assistance, he rose to let me in. He took the precaution, however, of asking through the door who it was and what he was wanted for. I was obliged to give my name, but I did so in a tone of assumed distress, that he might think I was indisposed.
"Ah! it is you, my dear son!" said he, as he opened the door. "What brings you here at this late hour?"
I stepped into the room, and leading him to the other side of it, opposite the door, I told him that I found it ab​solutely impossible to remain at St. Lazare any longer; that the night was a favorable time for leaving it unobserved, and that I expected him, as my friend, to consent to open the doors for me, or to lend me the keys so that I might open them myself.
This polite suggestion naturally took him by surprise. He stood gazing at me blankly for some minutes without making any reply. As I had no time to lose, I went on to assure him hastily that, deeply as I appreciated all his kindness, liberty must be the first consideration with every man, especially with one who, like me, was unjustly deprived of it, and that I was resolved to regain mine that very night, at whatever cost. Fearing that it might occur to him to raise his voice and call for help, I showed him the unanswerable argument in favor of silence which I was holding concealed under my coat.
"A pistol!" he exclaimed; "what, my son, do you intend to take my life in return for all the indulgence I have shown you?"
"God forbid," I replied; "you are too prudent and reasonable to drive me to that necessity; but I am determined to escape, and so fully am I resolved upon it that, if my purpose be defeated through any fault of yours, your fate is sealed!"
​"But, my dear son," he expostulated, pale and terrified, "what harm have I ever done you? Why should you wish to kill me?"
"Have I not already told you," I answered impatiently, "that I have no design upon your life? If you wish to live, you have only to open the doors for me, and I shall be your friend forever after."
Here I caught sight of the keys, which were lying on the table, and, seizing them, I told him to come with me, and to make as little noise as possible. He was obliged to comply.
As he opened each of the doors that barred our progress, he sighed and repeated, "Ah, my son, my son! Who would ever have thought this of you?"
"Silence, good Father, not a sound!" I reiterated every few moments, on my side.
At last we came to a kind of barrier placed in front of the main entrance from the street. I fancied myself already free, and was standing behind the Superior with my candle in one hand and my pistol in the other.
While he was hurriedly removing the barrier, a servant who slept in a small room near by, hearing the rattling of the bolts, jumped out of bed and looked out of his door. The good Father, thinking, apparently, that this man ​would be able to arrest my flight, ordered him, most imprudently, to come to his assistance. The fellow was a stalwart rascal, and threw himself upon me without a moment's hesitation. I did not stop to parley with him, but discharged my pistol full at his breast. "You are responsible for this, father," I said haughtily to my guide, "but you must finish your task, notwithstanding," I added, pushing him on towards the last door. He dared not refuse to open it, and I sprang out, free at last! A few paces off I found Lescaut waiting for me with two friends, as he had promised.
We hurried away. Lescaut asked me whether he had not heard the report of a pistol.
"That was your fault," I replied, "why did you bring me a loaded one?"
I thanked him, nevertheless, for having taken that precaution—had it not been for which I should doubtless have remained at St. Lazare for many a day. We went to spend the night at a tavern, where I made up, to some extent, for the poor fare to which I had been accustomed for nearly three months. I could not give myself up to the full enjoyment of the moment, however, for I was tortured by the thought of what Manon might be suffering.
"We must rescue her!" I said to my three friends. "I ​longed for my own liberty only with that object in view. You will, I am sure, bring all your ingenuity to my aid, while I, for my part, will devote my very life to the task."
Lescaut, who was not lacking in shrewdness and discretion, pointed out to me that we must act with great caution. My flight from St. Lazare, he said, and the unlucky offence I had committed while effecting my escape, would inevitably cause a public sensation; the Lieutenant-General of Police would institute a search for me, and his arm was a far-reaching one. In fine, unless I wished to run the risk of something even worse than St. Lazare, he thought it would be as well for me to remain in hiding within four walls for a few days, so that the first zeal of my enemies might have time to cool.
There was wisdom in his advice; but wisdom was also needed to follow it. So much circumspection and delay accorded but ill with my passion. I could stretch my compliance no further than to promise him that I would spend all the following day in bed. He looked me up in his room, where I remained until the evening.
Part of this time I occupied in devising projects and thinking out expedients for Manon's relief. I had every reason to believe that her prison was even more impenetrable than my own had been. Force and violence were out of the question; our only hope lay in stratagem, but the Goddess of Invention herself would have been at a loss how to begin.
I could find no solution of the problem, and postponed further consideration of it until after I had made some inquiries regarding the internal arrangements of the Hôpital.
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