When Roger had been searched his money-belt had not been taken from him and in it were twenty-six sequins, so he felt a natural impulse to jump at the chance of securing these amenities: but the caution inherited from his Scots mother saved him from being too badly swindled. By hard bargaining he reduced the turnkey's extortionate demands to the still extravagant figure of a sequin-which was about nine shillings-a day for better food, rush lights that would last eight hours, two extra blankets, and a book to be changed twice a week.
The book brought to him was Dante's Divina Comedia, which was long enough to hold his interest for many hours, and his improved ration was to include a litre a day of cheap wine; so at the thought of this new dispensation his spirits revived a little. But only temporarily, as these small comforts could do nothing to improve his future prospects, and those filled him with abysmal depression. There seemed no reason why the Municipality should release him and every reason why Malderini should use all the influence he had to keep him there. In less than a month, unless he were to forgo the better food and books so that he could prolong his purchase of rush lights, the awful darkness would close about him for good.
He had already several times considered his chances of making an escape and been compelled to dismiss them as negligible. It was well known that only one prisoner had ever succeeded in escaping from the Leads, and that had been the notorious adventurer Casanova, some forty years earlier. How he had succeeded was common knowledge, because for years afterwards he had entertained people in half the capitals in Europe by telling them the tale. He had been confined in a cell up on the top storey immediately under the great lead roof that gave the prison its name; had managed to squeeze himself through a small window and, risking death from a single slip, had, with extraordinary courage, walked fifty yards along a nine-inch ledge to freedom. But Roger was in a windowless dungeon in the depths of the prison and, even if by a bribe he could have got himself transferred to the top floor, he knew that his head for heights was not good enough to have emulated Casanova's remarkable feat.
The only other possibilities were either to bribe the jailer to leave the dungeon door unlocked, or spring upon and overcome him. But many other prisoners in the past must have got so far with their attempts only to be caught at one of the check-posts before they could escape from the building; otherwise, Casanova's claim that he was the only prisoner ever to have got away would have been disputed.
Eventually Roger came to the conclusion that his one and only hope lay in writing to the French Charge d'Affaires. He was most reluctant to do so because that meant he would have to substantiate his claim to French citizenship. That, he felt, should not be difficult, for during the Revolution he had been an original member of the Commune of Paris, had undertaken missions for the Committee of Public Safety as Citizen Representant Breuc and after the fall of Robespierre had become a Colonel on Barras's staff. He had, therefore, been quite a prominent figure and could claim the friendship of Carnot, Buonaparte and numerous other highly placed Frenchmen. But doing so was certain to result in his having to provide an account of his activities for the past seventeen months, and to cover such a lengthy period with a chronicle composed of plausible lies was going to be anything but easy.
Nevertheless, the risk of being caught out was one that he must now take as the only alternative to remaining where he was; so, when the jailer brought his afternoon meal, he asked to see the head turnkey again, as he had decided after all that he would like to buy some writing materials from him.
An hour later the turnkey arrived with them and, having parted with another of his sequins, Roger asked him how much he wanted to deliver a letter. For this service the man demanded ten sequins, and this time Roger tried in vain to beat him down. If he paid that price it would at one stroke deprive him of half his capital, and there was the awful risk that the avaricious ruffian might tear the letter up instead of delivering it. Tortured by this thought, he managed to strike a bargain to the effect that, should the letter not result in his being again brought before the court, he would receive books and light free for a month. That having been agreed to, the man promised to come back for the letter in an hour and to deliver it that evening.
When he had gone, Roger thought out his letter with great care, sentence by sentence, until he was satisfied that he had composed one on lines that were most likely to be effective. It was not an appeal but a most vigorous protest. Having given particulars of himself as Citizen Breuc, he displayed intense indignation that the French authorities in Venice should allow any Frenchman to be treated in the way he had been. He claimed that his conduct in the Malderini Palace had at worst been no more than a minor offence, then hinted that his real reason for entering it had been in connection with a mission he had undertaken for a person of importance in Paris. Finally, he said that if steps were not taken to secure his release at once, he would bring the matter to the attention of General Buonaparte.
Soon after the turnkey had collected the letter, his rush light burnt out and he spent another fourteen hours of misery and anxiety in pitch-black darkness. All the following day he waited, hoping to be sent for and trying to distract his mind with Dante's masterpiece; but he did both in vain. Another night crawled by, during which he was tortured by the fear that the turnkey had, after all, cheated him and taken his ten precious sequins for nothing. Then, on his third day in the Leads, at about ten o'clock in the morning, to his unutterable relief two officials of the court came to fetch him.
Now full of confidence that he was about to be released, he accompanied them with buoyant steps back across the Bridge of Sighs, down the long staircase and across the great open courtyard to the court room. There were many more people in it than there had been three days before and, as Roger was put into the dock, he caught sight of Malderini, the Princess Sirisha and Pietro, sitting together on one of the benches. Their presence caused him a sudden uneasiness.
He had thought it unlikely that Malderini would be informed of his demand to be brought before the court again, or that the original case would again be gone into, and anticipated that he would have only to convince the French authorities that in Paris he was regarded as a person of some importance; but the presence of the Malderini party suggested that they were to be called on to give evidence and, if so, it was certain that his enemy would do everything in his power to prevent his release.
The same elderly man with the pursed-up mouth was acting as President, but his younger colleague had been replaced by a neatly dressed little man with a bulbous nose on the end of which was balanced a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. The Provost-Marshal was also changed: an elderly Colonel with a bristling red moustache. It was he who conducted the enquiry from the beginning, and the two Italians remained silent throughout. Picking up a paper that Roger recognised as his letter, the Colonel gave a loud cough, and said:
'You state in this that you are the Citizen Breuc, who by various acts in the glorious Revolution deserves well of your country.'
'I am.' replied Roger firmly. 'And were we in Park, I would have no difficulty in producing a hundred people to prove it.'
'Perhaps; but we are not in Paris.' The Provost-Marshal again held up the letter. 'In this you imply that you were sent here on a secret mission. How long is it since you left Paris?'
Roger was quick to see the need for caution, so he answered, 'A considerable time. Other work for the Republic has since necessitated my going on a long journey.'