Liberty Gained, Freedom Lost: A Short Story
Liberty Gained, Freedom Lost
A Story of Two French Prisoners
“What is your name, mon ami?” I asked in a coarse voice almost like a cough for I had almost forgotten how to speak after so many years of silence in isolation.
“Laurent. And you monsieur?” He crawled closer to me as his chains allowed.
“Marcel Lafevre,” my name sounded foreign to me as I said it. Prisoner had become my identity. “What were your crimes, Laurent?”
Laurent looked away full of shame before speaking. “My village is poor and my father was sick. Our crops were scarce and I grew desperate for my father’s sake. My mother would cry to me and pray to God, the saints, and the Holy Mother but there was no answer.” Laurent signed the crucifix over his head and chest. “A few villagers and I went into the city, where they say morsels are so plentiful they are thrown in the streets. I thought to myself, the beggars are eating better than us farmers. So we began to poach from those who had plenty as a small offering to those who had little. At first, we stole only hens for the eggs and bread to get by, but we figured a bottle of wine and a goat could lift the spirits of the entire village. My abilities as a thief were great and I learned to be unseen in the homes to take jewels and silver. That is of course to sell so I could buy medicine for my father and jewelry for my poor pious mother. She gave thanks to the Father, believing it to be a blessing from heaven above.” He signed the crucifix again. “Alas, my ambition was my undoing. I was captured stealing diamonds from the city museum.”
“Let me guess. You were stealing the diamonds for your priest.” I chortled.
“Do not mock me, monsieur. Can you not see my sorrow is great and I’ve repented of what I did?”
“What is more righteous, mon ami? To steal for the benefit of others or to starve with your integrity?”
“Are you saying I should have let my father die and my mother starve to death? Why not murder them by my own hand then? To do nothing would be the same in my mind.”
“I did not ask on the pretense of a wise solution, but I also do not believe theft was your only option. It was the option you chose. You’ve benefitted from your stolen goods as much as the others. Your intentions were not purely sanctified.” For the first time in many years, I felt like a young man debating philosophy at the university. Then I remember the weight of the chains around my wrist and humbled myself. “But I’m a criminal same as you, guilty of many more sins that I’ve not been tried for.”
“And you, monsieur?” Laurent asked. “What are you guilty of?”
“I was condemned…” I paused to choose my response carefully, “…for polluting the minds of the young but I’m guilty of foolish pride and haughty arrogance. How long is your sentence?” I asked, desiring to change the subject.
“Two years, if I survive that long,” he stated with an air of hopelessness.
I asked Laurent about his village to brighten his mood and succeeded, for he spoke heartily of the villagers, his parents, and childhood memories. We reminisced over deviant youthful acts and rendezvous with beautiful girls. For many years I was in isolation, alone in a prison of my own thoughts, so it was nice having a companion to pass the time and silence my inner demons. However, Laurent was tormented in his sleep by violent nightmares and shouting fits. They frightened me at first because his booming cries of terror bounced off the stone walls as if we were in a cavern. Despite my best efforts to wake him, the chains prevented me from shaking him out of his trance. It would be months before I learned to sleep through the sudden start and stops of his pitiful shouts. When I spoke to him about it, Laurent looked at me as though I were telling him a joke and then quickly moved on, ignoring my inquiries on the subject. He was battling the demons in his sleep.
There was a new warden of the prison who allowed the other prisoners to congregate in a common hall for a short period of time after we had worked at beating rocks all day. It took us a while to trust one another enough to engage in any pleasantries, knowing that we were all criminals capable of violent crime or other devious behavior. We were all glad for the change the more often we met and exchanged stories. There were an array of personalities with different gifts and charms that could have won some of them a decent living if they hadn’t turned to villainy. It wouldn’t be long before they began to act like criminals again, casting lots and gambling food rations, even plotting an escape. As convinced of his repentance as Laurent was, he quickly joined in the games of gambling but avoided any talk of mutiny. He didn’t see any harm in games of chance but rebellion was a far greater sin.
I spoke to Laurent about this upon returning to our chamber, and he explained it to me like this, “gambling my food rations is harmful to no one except me. I risk only my own comforts to the mercy of chance, but mutiny would mean violence against the guards and rebellion against the authorities. I wouldn’t dare extend my stay in this dismal dungeon any longer than I have to, as much as I enjoy spending time with you, mon ami.”
“But do you not see, Laurent, that you harm your opponent by winning their rations, which are already scarce? You must ask yourself where this desire to gamble comes from. Is it not from the same place as rebellion? The heart, which would seek to triumph over another fellow man at any cost, even to cheat.”
“You insult me, monsieur.” Laurent pointed an accusatory finger from his shadow-cast corner outside of the moon ray shining through the window. I am not sure if he suffered a momentary strike of conviction at being caught in his tricks or if he was justifying his actions in his mind as he paused. “The opponent is choosing to take the risk for a game. It is just a game in the end, is it not? Are we not all thieves and criminals alike?”
“And that, do not forget. The moment you forget that you are indeed a criminal like the rest, you shall return to crime once you have gained your liberty. There is no freedom from crime when it is heart-deep. But I cannot convince a man who has made up his own mind on the matter so resolutely faultless.”
“What does it matter? We will not see freedom for many moons.”Laurent rolled over on his bed of straw with his arms held against his chest for warmth and I returned to brushing my chains clean as I did every night until I fell asleep.
Though it is very difficult to keep track of time when each day is like the other year after year, it had only been approaching a year since Laurent first became my mate in chains. Yet, a jailer came in with the warden to release Laurent in the light of day. “Your fines have been paid, Monsieur Dubois Des Collines. You are free to return to your village.” He stood in disbelief as I watched the scene from the floor, agape and wide-eyed. Laurent knelt down beside me and embraced me passionately with tears flowing down his rough cheeks. “Thank you, mon ami. I will never forget how kind you have been to me in my worst days.”
I held his face in my hands and looked him in the eyes, “Mark me, monsieur. Though you have gained your liberty do not forget your chains or you will find yourself in them once again. Promise me!”
“I promise!” They pulled us away from one another and led him into the hallway before bolting the door. Alone again with my thoughts, my chains, and the demons when the sun hid behind the mountains.
My thoughts were on Laurent, hoping he had learned from his time served so that he was enjoying a prudent life of integrity and simplicity. Perhaps he was married to a nice village girl and they have children now to play with the grandparents. Or maybe he moved into the city and made a living as a shop owner or took the vows of a priest. I missed our conversations and debates on philosophy and theology. The community isn’t the same when a bright light departs, leaving the dim embers together to burn to ash. A few of the prisoners regained the fat on their collapsed cheeks from winning at gambling now that Laurent was free.
Years must have passed as I began to lose my voice again from the lack of speech. My bones were growing weary from beating against stones day after day. Rather than join in the hall with the others, I went to my chamber to brush my chains clean and sleep. One morning as I drew on the stone floor with dirt from between the grooves, my chamber door opened and the jailers threw a limp prisoner down on the straw bed before clasping his fetters around the ankles and bonds around his wrists, then to the wall. The jailers said nothing as they left, bolting the door. The prisoner lay there, motionless for the rest of the day and night with his back toward me so I was unable to see who it was. His arrival caused the jailers to miss my communal time and supper but it did not matter anymore. I had learned how to live in a perpetual state of hunger so it became normal for me.
The next morning I woke to find the prisoner awake and sitting up with his gaze upward and outward to the morning sky, where birds could be heard singing love songs. My aging eyes were adjusting from being closed in slumber but I began to make out the figure there before me. “Bonjour, mon ami,” the prisoner greeted me in a familiar voice.
“Laurent?” Suddenly he was very clear to me and I couldn’t speak. Laurent was thicker now from eating well for many years and had a clean shaved face though his face looked battered as if from a brawl.
“I’m very sorry to say that I am happy to see you. I wish it were under different circumstances.”
“I…I…I can’t believe you are here,” I stammered. “But how?”
“Oh,” he let out a long breath. “You were right. After they released me from the prison, some men from the village were waiting outside for me with a cart to take me back home. My mother embraced me in tears and my father held me tightly from the shoulders. It was good to be home and to sleep in my bed. We celebrated my arrival with a slaughtered pig and fine wine. I ate like a king and there was music and merriment like I hadn’t seen for years. There was a beautiful girl, Josephine, who gazed at me longingly all night and I fell in love. I worked with my father on the farm and earned an honest living, je jure devant Dieu. We were going to be married and she was going to help me take care of my father who became feeble with age. Papa eventually passed, repose en paix,” he signed the crucifix, “and Mama was hysterical for days. I was stricken with grief and turned to wine for comfort. Day after day I sought comfort from bottle after bottle until Josephine’s father came to me. I threatened and cursed him and he took Josephine, mon amour, away from me. I wept for days at the loss of my father and my love, until I drank myself into a rage and sought after Josephine’s father. Violent and passionate, I charged into every house looking for them until I grew thirsty for another drink. Josephine’s father, pale as a phantom, found me in a tavern and clung to my clothes saying her name before bursting to sobs. ‘You killed her,’ he said repeatedly. I did not kill her and I tried to tell him but he would not listen. The people began to mob around us. ‘She was horrified by the way you changed and she took her own life. You killed her!’ Under the influence of wine and the accusing eyes of the crowd, I lost my judgment and I pushed the old man to the floor. Members of the crowd grabbed me in defense of the old man and I pummeled them with my fist. We brawled until I was beaten into submission and thrown out of the tavern. I woke up in a cell and I was tried and sentenced to another year in this prison.”
His story moved me to tears over the loss of his father, Josephine, and her father, and the misfortune of a friend. It broke my heart, that is what became of his liberty. “I am so sorry for your loss, mon ami. I have missed you dearly but I had hoped to see you again on the other side of purgatory. Now we must suffer here, together, until Saint Peter or perhaps Joan of Arc carry us away in the fiery chariot to paradise.”
“If this is purgatory then I was in l’enfer.”
“Indeed you were, but by the grace of God, you have returned to purgatory. Your liberty was bought by others and you squandered it because you were never truly free. You were a prisoner to theft and then a prisoner to wine. Learn to be a prisoner and learn to love these chains for it will save you when you have gained your liberty once again.”
“I do not want to love my chains. I want to be free. I want to live and love. My mother needs me, the farm! She will be forced to sell it and then we will have nothing.” Laurent began to sob and my heart broke for him once again. I had not suffered this much in my bondage for nearly a decade but I loved this man like a brother and wished to see him restored.
A year came and went and the time grew closer for my release. We picked up where we had left off, Laurent and I, only this time he refrained from playing at gambling with the others, though he was active in watching. He advised the men on how to bet but did not play himself. We continued our talks like before and he even attempted scrubbing his chains as I did but found it futile and gave it up altogether. The jailers came in one morning and released him again. We embraced again, only this time more hopeful that we would see each other as free men the next time.
In Laurent’s absence, I grew anxious, praying to God he would not return and that the angels would preserve him from impiety. That year was one of the worst years of my life, for I lived in constant angst and fear, watching the door for the jailers to bring a new prisoner in.
One day a new prisoner came in and my heart leaped from my bowels until I quickly realized it was not Laurent. This man was bony-thin and much shorter in stature. His name was Gaston and he was sentenced for kidnapping. Gaston spoke to himself and carried with him a darkness that hovered around him like a shroud. The voices in my head were stronger when he was around and my chamber felt haunted. Once, Gaston lunged at one of the guards and bit him in the neck when he was carrying in our supper. We didn’t eat for almost a week. I began counting the days until my release and realized it was approaching closer.
The day of my release came like a beautiful spring morning, a warm delight after a season of bitter cold. When they loosed the chains, I still felt the weight of them on my arms and legs but I did not feel free to move about the room for fear of the trembling Gaston. I edged carefully out of the room and followed the jailers out of the prison. The prison was at the edge of a peninsula, far from the nearest town and there weren’t any carriages willing to cart an old reformed prisoner around. I had written letters to my relatives and even to Laurent about my release but I did not hear back. Either the jailers weren’t sending them or they weren’t responding.
I headed north toward the town and found work with an honorable family who clothed me and fed me for weeks until I earned enough wages to afford a carriage ride to Collines, where Laurent lived. The carriage broke down a few days’ journey away and I met some incredible people in the town tavern, where a local offered me a room and work on his property as a reading tutor. This town was very good to me and I gained many students who picked up reading rather quickly in the short months that I remained there. However, a force, call it destiny, was pulling to Collines as if I discerned danger for my old prison friend. So I hired a carriage and continued on to Collines.
Upon arriving at Collines, a quaint village, I recognized it exactly as Laurent had described it to me with such great detail. I knew every house and each person’s name if they were still living, save the names of young children who were born after our time. I inquired about Laurent and one of the villagers informed me that he sold the farm after his mother passed and moved into the city. For some strange reason, the villagers were unwilling to tell me more than that bit of information. However, I did see a toddler who bore an uncanny resemblance to Laurent, though it could be a relative.
As I left the village, one of the women gave me a parchment with an address written on it and then ran away bashfully. She was ashamed or embarrassed but felt strongly enough to give it to me and for that I was grateful. I asked for directions and eventually found the building matching the address on the parchment. A servant woman answered the door, carrying a crying infant in her arms. “Bonjour madame, I am monsieur Marcel Lafevre de Avignon looking for an old friend, Monsieur Laurent Dubois. Is he here?”
She looked at me disapprovingly and then spoke, “He is in the infirmary, unwell. I didn’t know him to have any ‘friends’ as long as I’ve worked for him. You should hurry to see him, the doctor doesn’t believe he will last much longer.”
“This is unbelievable. It’s only been a couple of years and he is younger than I am.”
“The man lived his life as if he had a death wish. And soon his wish will come true.” Then the rude young woman closed the door in my face, nearly catching my nose.
I hurried to the infirmary and found the swollen shell of Laurent lying in a white bed with a wet cloth over his forehead. He had gained an incredible amount of weight and his color was a pale yellow. “What has become of you, mon ami?” I asked.
His grey puffed-out eyes looked around the room for me. “Marcel!” He coughed violently. “You are free at last! Look at you, beardless and full.”
“We are finally both together as free men.” My words appeared to strike Laurent like stomach pains.
“I’m beginning to believe I never was a free man,” he moaned, laboring to speak.
“Nonsense. Look at us here now.”
“I’m dying, Marcel. I am dying because of my liberty. My liberty to gave me the freedom to partake of every pleasure or revelry I desired. When my mother died, I sold the farm and bought a business. I made good money and I could have been happy and settled down with a good woman.” He coughed again for a long minute. “But I wanted all the women that money could afford and all the rich delicacies the wealthy enjoyed. It wasn’t long before the doctor told me I had caught a sickness, terminal. There is no cure. I’m still in purgatory.”
“Laurent, I wish there was something I could do.”
“I see you still wear your chains,” Laurent chortled.
“excuse?”
“You stand with you are hands and feet close together as if you still wore your shackles. I imagine it has preserved you all this time that you have been out. I finally understand what you were trying to tell me. I finally understand.”
“I would rather you be well than be right,” I wiped the tear from my eye.
“Can you tell me what it was that you were sentenced to so many years in prison?”
“I was teaching philosophy the governor had forbidden me to speak. I saw it as the truth and in my arrogance I continued to speak openly and debate in the town squares. The governor’s son and niece became my pupils and this angered the governor so he had me thrown in prison for almost 20 years.”
“I thought you had killed someone and didn’t want to tell me.”
“Perhaps I did kill the person I was, boisterous and arrogant. Now I know how to preserve my life, wearing my chains so I do not give myself the freedom to lose my liberty again.”
“And to choke on your own chain.”
“What can I do, Laurent?”
“I have given you my estate. Will you settle my affairs for me?”
“I will leave an inheritance for your children, mon ami.”
He passed that evening and I shut his eyes with my own delicate touch. I hope that I was able to bring peace to him in his final hours. Now I must go and see to the children.
Fin
