“I thought so.  Is his name on the registers?”

“No.  He escaped arrest, and has just been brought in, as you saw.”

“Antoine,” said the priest, in a low voice, and with a gaze that seemed to pierce the soul of the weak little gaoler; “Antoine, when you were a shoemaker in the Rue de la Croix, in two or three hard winters I think you found me a friend.”

“Oh!  Monsieur le Cure,” said Antoine, writhing; “if Monsieur le Cure would believe that if I could save his life!  But—­”

“Pshaw!” said the priest, “it is not for myself, but for this boy.  You must save him, Antoine.  Hear me, you must.  Take him now to one of the lower cells and hide him.  You risk nothing.  His name is not on the prison register.  He will not be called, he will not be missed; that fanatic will think that he has perished with the rest of us (Antoine shuddered, though the priest did not move a muscle) and when this mad fever has subsided and order is restored, he will reward you.  And Antoine—­”

Here the priest pocketed his book, and somewhat awkwardly with his huge hands unfastened the left side of his cassock, and tore the silk from the lining.  Monsieur le Cure’s cassock seemed a cabinet of oddities.  First he pulled from this ingenious hiding-place a crucifix, which he replaced; then a knot of white ribbon, which he also restored; and, finally, a tiny pocket or bag of what had been cream-coloured satin, embroidered with small bunches of heartsease, and which was aromatic with otto of roses.  Awkwardly, and somewhat slowly, he drew out of this a small locket, in the centre of which was some unreadable legend in cabalistic-looking character, and which blazed with the finest diamonds.  Heaven alone knows the secret of that gem, or the struggle with which the priest yielded it.  He put it into Antoine’s hand, talking as he did so partly to himself and partly to the gaoler.

“We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.  The diamonds are of the finest, Antoine, and will sell for much.  The blessing of a dying priest upon you if you do kindly, and his curse if you do ill to this poor child, whose home was my home in better days.  And for the locket—­it is but a remembrance, and to remember is not difficult!”

As the last observation was not addressed to Antoine, so also he did not hear it.  He was discontentedly watching the body of the Viscount, whom he consented to help, but with genuine weak-mindedness consented ungraciously.

“How am I to get him there?  Monsieur le Cure sees that he cannot stand upon his feet.”

Monsieur le Cure smiled, and stooping, picked his old pupil up in his arms as if he had been a baby, and bore him to one of the doors.

“You must come no further,” said Antoine, hastily.

“Ingrate!” muttered the priest in momentary anger, and then, ashamed, he crossed himself, and pressing the young nobleman to his bosom with the last gush of earthly affection that he was to feel, he kissed his senseless face, spoke a benediction to ears that could not hear it, and laid his burden down.