“In secret, June 12, 1794.

“Louis Archambaud Jean-Marie Arnaud, Vicomte de B., supposed to have perished in the massacres of September, 1792. Keep my secret.  I have been imprisoned a year and nine months.  Who are you? how long have you been here?”

The letter was drawn up, and he watched anxiously for the reply.  It came, and with it some sheets of blank paper.

“Monsieur,—­We have the honour to reply to your inquiries, and thank you for your frankness.  Henri Edouard Clermont, Baron de St. Claire.  Valerie de St. Claire.  We have been here but two days.  Accept our sympathy for your misfortunes.”

Four words in this note seized at once upon Monsieur the Viscount’s interest—­Valerie de St. Claire;—­and for some reasons, which I do not pretend to explain, he decided that it was she who was the author of these epistles, and the demon of curiosity forthwith took possession of his mind.  Who was she? was she old or young?  And in which relation did she stand to Monsieur le Baron—­that of wife, of sister, or of daughter?  And from some equally inexplicable cause Monsieur the Viscount determined in his own mind that it was the latter.  To make assurance doubly sure, however, he laid a trap to discover the real state of the case.  He wrote a letter of thanks and sympathy, expressed with all the delicate chivalrous politeness of a nobleman of the old regime, and addressed it to Madame la Baronne.  The plan succeeded.  The next note he received contained these sentences:—­“I am not the Baroness.  Madame my mother is, alas! dead.  I and my father are alone.  He is ill, but thanks you, Monsieur, for your letters, which relieve the ennui of imprisonment.  Are you alone?”

Monsieur the Viscount, as in duty bound, relieved the ennui of the Baron’s captivity by another epistle.  Before answering the last question, he turned round involuntarily, and looked to where Monsieur Crapaud sat by the broken pitcher.  The beautiful eyes were turned towards him, and Monsieur the Viscount took up his pencil, and wrote hastily, “I am not alone—­I have a friend.”

Henceforward the oyster-shell took a long time to fill, and patience seemed a harder virtue than ever.  Perhaps the last fact had something to do with the rapid decline of Monsieur the Viscount’s health.  He became paler and weaker, and more fretful.  His prayers were accompanied by greater mental struggles, and watered with more tears.  He was, however, most positive in his assurances to Monsieur Crapaud that he knew the exact nature and cause of the malady that was consuming him.  It resulted, he said, from the noxious and unwholesome condition of his cell; and he would entreat Antoine to have it swept out.  After some difficulty the gaoler consented.