Monsieur the Viscount burst into a loud laugh.

“Eh, well!  Monsieur,” said he, “but this is not well-bred on your part.  Who gave you leave to eat my spiders? and to bolt them in such an unmannerly way, moreover.”

In spite of this reproof Monsieur Crapaud looked in no way ashamed of himself, and I regret to state that henceforward (with the partial humaneness of mankind in general), Monsieur the Viscount amused himself by catching the insects (which were only too plentiful) in an old oyster-shell, and then setting them at liberty on the stone for the benefit of his friend.  As for him, all appeared to be fish that came to his net—­spiders and beetles, slugs and snails from the damp corners, flies, and wood-lice found on turning up the large stone, disappeared one after the other.  The wood-lice were an especial amusement:  when Monsieur the Viscount touched them, they shut up into tight little balls, and in this condition he removed them to the stone, and placed them like marbles in a row, Monsieur Crapaud watching the proceeding with rapt attention.  After awhile the balls would slowly open and begin to crawl away; but he was a very active wood-louse indeed who escaped the suction of Monsieur Crapaud’s tongue, as, his eyes glowing with eager enjoyment, he bolted one after another, and Monsieur the Viscount clapped his hands and applauded.

The grated window was a very fine field for spiders and other insects, and by piling up stones on the floor, Monsieur the Viscount contrived to scramble up to it, and fill his friend’s oyster-shell with the prey.

One day, about a year and nine months after his first arrival at the prison, he climbed to the embrasure of the window, as usual, oyster-shell in hand.  He always chose a time for this when he knew that the court would most probably be deserted, to avoid the danger of being recognized through the grating.  He was, therefore, not a little startled at being disturbed in his capture of a fat black spider by a sound of something bumping against the iron bars.  On looking up, he saw that a string was dangling before the window with something attached to the end of it.  He drew it in, and, as he did so, he fancied that he heard a distant sound of voices and clapped hands, as if from some window above.  He proceeded to examine his prize, and found that it was a little round pincushion of sand, such as women use to polish their needles with, and that, apparently, it was used as a make-weight to ensure the steady descent of a neat little letter that was tied beside it, in company with a small lead pencil.  The letter was directed to “The prisoner who finds this.” Monsieur the Viscount opened it at once.  This was the letter—­

“In prison, 24th Prairial, year 2.

“Fellow-sufferer, who are you? how long have you been imprisoned?  Be good enough to answer.”

Monsieur the Viscount hesitated for a moment, and then determined to risk all.  He tore off a bit of the paper, and with the little pencil hurriedly wrote this reply:—­