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Updated: May 23, 2025
Four and seventy years of age as he now was, Barthes had spent nearly half a century in prison. He was the eternal prisoner, the hero of liberty whom each successive Government had carried from citadel to fortress.
I know him; I admire and love him. You must set your door open wide for him." Bache and Janzen, however, had glanced at one another smiling. And the latter, with his cold ironical air, slowly remarked: "Why does Monsieur Barthes hide himself? A great many people think he is dead; he is simply a ghost who no longer frightens anybody."
"Hah!" cried Harry, "I remember." And turning easily over, he shot out for the prison wall. A few strokes brought them in sight of a flight of stone steps under the archway. And as they catch sight of the steps on ahead, they become conscious that they are being pursued by another of those ravenous beasts of which Barthes and Fleon were talking in such cruel levity.
Then Gascogne in his turn remarked: "There is also the Barthes affair, Monsieur le Ministre we are still waiting. Are we to arrest Barthes at that little house at Neuilly?" One of those chances which sometimes come to the help of detectives and make people think the latter to be men of genius had revealed to him the circumstance that Barthes had found a refuge with Abbe Pierre Froment.
And thus he remained the martyr of freedom: freedom which he still desired in spite of everything; freedom, which, strive as he might, never came, never existed. "But you are mistaken," replied Guillaume, wounded by Janzen's raillery. "There is again a thought of getting rid of Barthes, whose uncompromising rectitude disturbs our politicians; and he does well to take his precautions!"
That evening at dinner, feeling that he was with friends who cared for him, Barthes proved extremely gay, and showed all his ingenuousness in talking of his ideal, which would soon be realised, said he, in spite of everything. He could tell a story well whenever he cared to chat, and on that occasion he related some delightful anecdotes about the prisons through which he had passed.
Seated in a corner of the glazed verandah they talked in undertones of Barthes' painful affair, and ultimately decided to ask Theophile Morin to dine with them on the following evening, and inform his old friend that he must again go into exile. "That is the best course," repeated Guillaume. "Morin is very fond of him and will know how to break the news.
Barthes, for his part, stooped and kissed Guillaume on both cheeks. "Ah!" said the latter, almost gaily, "it gives me courage to see you." However, the new comers had brought a little information.
They dared not speak. And their worst fears were indeed correct. "Hullo!" "What now?" "Thirteen." "Yes." "You are wrong," said Fleon; "count them again." The man obeyed. "Thirteen; I was sure of it." "Well, that's a rum go," said Fleon. "I am positive that there were only twelve." "There's a baker's dozen now," said Barthes, with his brutal laugh; "the more the merrier." "Right."
I know him; I admire and love him. You must set your door open wide for him." Bache and Janzen, however, had glanced at one another smiling. And the latter, with his cold ironical air, slowly remarked: "Why does Monsieur Barthes hide himself? A great many people think he is dead; he is simply a ghost who no longer frightens anybody."
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