A Boy's Fortune

Ben answered this question as briefly and clearly as he could.

The doctor listened with real interest, and it might have been satisfactory to Ben had he known that his story was believed. M. Bourdon was a shrewd man of the world, and it struck him that this knowledge might enable him to demand more extortionate terms of Major Grafton.

"Don't you believe me?" asked Ben, watching the face of his listener.

"I hear a great many strange stories," said the doctor. "I have to be cautious about what I believe."

"But surely you will believe me, knowing that I am perfectly sane?"

"That is the question to be determined," said M. Bourdon, smiling.

"Won't you investigate it?" pleaded Ben. "It is a crime to keep me here, when I am of sound mind."

"Whenever I am convinced of that I will let you go. Meanwhile you must be quiet, and submit to the rules of my establishment."

"How long do you expect to keep me here?" asked Ben.

"As long as you require it and your board is paid."

Ben looked despondent, for this assurance held out very little hope of release. Still he was young, and youth is generally hopeful. Something might turn up. Ben was determined that something should turn up. He was not going to remain shut up in a mad-house any longer than he could help. He remained silent, and M. Bourdon touched a little bell upon a small table beside the door.

The summons was answered by a stout man with rough, black locks, who looked like a hotel porter.

"Francois," said the doctor, in the French language, "conduct this young man to No. 19."

"At once, Monsieur le Docteur," answered the attendant. "Come with me, young man."

He signed to Ben to follow him, and our hero, realizing the utter futility of resistance, did so.

"Go ahead, monsieur," said Francois, when they came to a staircase.

Ben understood him very well, though he spoke in French, thanks to his assiduous study of the last four weeks.

They walked along a narrow corridor, and Francois, taking from his pocket a bunch of keys, carefully selected one and opened the door.

"Entrez monsieur."

Ben found himself in an apartment about the size of a hall bedroom, with one window, and a narrow bedstead, covered with an exceedingly thin mattress. There was no carpet on the floor, and the furniture was very scanty. It consisted of but one chair, a cheap bureau, and a washstand. And this was to be Ben's home – for how long?

"I must get acquainted with this man," thought Ben. "I must try to win his goodwill, and perhaps he may be able to help me to escape."

"Is your name Francois?" he asked, as the man lingered at the door.

"Oui, monsieur."

"And how long have you been here – in this asylum?"

"How long, monsieur? Five years, nearly."

"There is some mistake about my being here, Francois. I don't look crazy, do I?"

"No, monsieur; but – "

"But what?"

"That proves nothing."

"There is a plot against me, and I am put here by an enemy. I want you to be my friend. Here, take this."

Ben produced from his pocket a silver franc piece and offered it to Francois, who took it eagerly, for the man's besetting sin was avarice.

"Thanks, monsieur – much thanks!" he said, his stolid face lighting up. "I will be a friend."

"Francois!"

At the call from below Francois hastily thrust the coin into his pocket, nodded significantly to Ben, and, retiring, locked the door behind him.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Introduces Two Celebrities

What a change a short half-hour may make in the position and feelings of any person! Little did Ben imagine, when he set out on a drive in the morning with Major Grafton, that he was on his way to one of the most hopeless of prisons.

It was hard even now for him to realize his position. He looked from the window, and with a glance of envy saw in a field, not far away, some Swiss peasants at work. They were humble people, living a quiet, uneventful, laborious life; yet Ben felt that they were infinitely better off than he, provided he were doomed to pass the remainder of his life in this refuge. But of this he would not entertain the idea. He was young, not yet seventeen, and life was full of pleasant possibilities.

"I am a Yankee," he thought, "and I don't believe they will succeed in keeping me here long. I will keep a bright lookout for a chance to escape."

Half an hour later Ben heard the key grate in the lock, and, fixing his eyes on the entrance, he saw Francois enter.

"Monsieur, dinner is ready," he said.

Ben, notwithstanding his disagreeable situation, felt that he, too, was ready for the dinner. He was glad to find that it was not to be served to him in his own room. He would have a chance of seeing the other inmates of the house.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"Follow me," answered Francois, of course in French.

He led the way, and Ben followed him into a lower room, long and narrow, which was used as the dining-room. There were no side-windows, and it would have been quite dark but for a narrow strip of window near the ceiling.

Around a plain table sat a curious collection of persons. It was easy to see that something was the matter with them, for I do not wish to have it understood that all the inmates of the house were, like our hero, perfectly sane. M. Bourdon was not wholly a quack, but he was fond of money, and, looking through the eyes of self-interest, he was willing to consider Ben insane, although he knew very well that he was as rational as himself.

"Sit here, monsieur," said Francois.

Ben took the seat indicated, and naturally turned to survey his immediate neighbors.

The one on the right-hand was a tall, venerable-looking man, with white hair and a flowing beard, whose manner showed the most perfect decorum. The other was a thin, dark-complexioned man, of bilious aspect, and shifty, evasive eyes. Neither noticed Ben at first, as the dinner appeared to engross their first attention. This consisted of a thin broth and a section of a loaf of coarse bread as the first course. Ben had been accustomed to more luxurious fare, and he was rather surprised to see with what enjoyment his neighbors partook of it. Next came a plate of meat, and this was followed by a small portion of grapes. There was nothing more. It was clear that M. Bourdon did not consider rich fare good for his patients.

"I think I would rather dine at the hotel," thought Ben; but the diet was not by any means the worst thing of which he complained.