Clelia was standing at the window of the aviary in an expectant attitude, an expression of profound despair on her contracted features.  As soon as she saw Fabrice she signaled to him that all was lost; then, hurrying to her piano, and adapting her words to the accompaniment of a recitative from a favorite opera, in accents tremulous with her emotion and the fear of being overheard by the sentry beneath, she sang:—­

“Ah, do I see you still alive?  Praise God for his infinite mercy!  Barbone, the wretch whose insolence you chastised the day of your arrival here, disappeared some time ago and for a few days was not seen about the citadel.  He returned day before yesterday, and since then I have reason to fear he has a design of poisoning you.  He has been seen prowling about the kitchen of the palace where your meals are prepared.  I can assert nothing positively, but it is my maid’s belief that his skulking there bodes you no good.  I was frightened this morning, not seeing you at the usual time; I thought you must be dead.  Until you hear more from me, do not touch the food they give you; I will try to manage to convey a little chocolate to you.  In any case, if you have a cord, or can make one from your linen, let it down from your window among the orange-trees this evening at nine o’clock.  I will attach a stronger cord to it, and with its aid you can draw up the bread and chocolate I will have in readiness.”

Fabrice had carefully preserved the bit of charcoal he had found in the stove; taking advantage of Clelia’s more softened mood, he formed on the palm of his hand a number of letters in succession, which taken together made up these words:—­

“I love you, and life is dear to me only when I can see you.  Above all else, send me paper and a pencil.”

As Fabrice had hoped and expected, the extreme terror visible in the young girl’s face operated to prevent her from terminating the interview on receipt of this audacious message; she only testified her displeasure by her looks.  Fabrice had the prudence to add:—­“The wind blows so hard to-day that I couldn’t catch quite all you said; and then, too, the sound of the piano drowns your voice.  You were saying something about poison, weren’t you—­what was it?”

At these words the young girl’s terror returned in all its violence; she hurriedly set to work to describe with ink a number of large capital letters on the leaves she tore from one of her books, and Fabrice was delighted to see her at last adopt the method of correspondence that he had been vainly advocating for the last three months.  But this system, although an improvement on the signals, was less desirable than a regular exchange of letters, so Fabrice constantly feigned to be unable to decipher the words of which she exhibited the component letters.