Fabrice requested that when she sent him his supply of water at evening she would accompany it with one of her alphabets, which, being traced in ink, were legible at a greater distance.  He did not fail to write her a good long letter, and was careful to put in it no soft nonsense—­at least, of a nature to offend.

The next day, in their alphabetical conversation, Clelia had no reproach to make him.  She informed him that there was less to be apprehended from the poisoners.  Barbone had been waylaid and nearly murdered by the lovers of the Governor’s scullery-maids; he would scarcely venture to show his face in the kitchens again.  She owned up to stealing a counter-poison from her father; she sent it to him with directions how to use it, but the main thing was to reject at once all food that seemed to have an unnatural taste.

Clelia had subjected Don Cesare to a rigorous examination, without succeeding in discovering whence came the six thousand francs received by Fabrice.  In any case, it was a good sign:  it showed that the severity of his confinement was relaxing.

The poison episode had a very favorable effect on our hero’s amatory enterprise:  still, he could never extort anything at all resembling a confession of love; but he had the felicity of living on terms of intimacy with Clelia.  Every morning, and often at evening also, there was a long conversation with the alphabets; every evening at nine o’clock Clelia received a lengthy letter, and sometimes accorded it a few brief words of answer; she sent him the daily paper and an occasional new book; finally, the rugged Grillo had been so far tamed as to keep Fabrice supplied with bread and wine, which were handed him daily by Clelia’s maid.  This led honest Grillo to conclude that the Governor was not of the same mind as those who had engaged Barbone to poison the young Monsignor; at which he rejoiced exceedingly, as did his comrades, for there was a saying current in the prison—­“You have only to look Monsignor del Dongo in the face; he is certain to give you money.”

Fabrice was very pale; lack of exercise was injuring his health:  but for all that he had never been so happy.  The tone of the conversation between Clelia and him was familiar and often gay.  The only moments of the girl’s life not beset with dark forebodings and remorse were those spent in conversing with him.  She was so thoughtless as to remark one day:—­

“I admire your delicacy:  because I am the Governor’s daughter you have nothing to say to me of the pleasures of freedom!”

“That’s because I am not so absurd as to have aspirations in that direction,” replied Fabrice.  “How often could I hope to see you if I were living in Parma, a free man again?  And life would not be worth living if I could not tell you all my thoughts—­no, not that exactly:  you take precious good care I don’t tell you all my thoughts!  But in spite of your cruel tyranny, to live without seeing you daily would be a far worse punishment than captivity; in all my life I was never so happy!  Isn’t it strange to think happiness was awaiting me in a prison?”