My dear Marthe,—­You can rely on the discretion of the man who will give you this letter; he does not know how to read or to write.  He is a stanch Republican, and shared in Baboeuf’s conspiracy; your father often made use of him, and he regards the senator as a traitor.  Now, my dear wife, attend to my directions.  The senator has been shut up by us in the cave where our masters were hidden.  The poor creature had provisions for only five days, and as it is our interest that he should live, I wish you, as soon as you receive this letter, to take him food for at least five days more.  The forest is of course watched; therefore take as many precautions as we formerly did for our young masters.  Don’t say a word to Malin; don’t speak to him; and put on one of our masks which you will find on the steps which lead down to the cave.  Unless you wish to compromise our heads you must be absolutely silent about this letter and the secret I have now confided to you.  Don’t say a word to Mademoiselle de Cinq-Cygne, who might tell of it.  Don’t fear for me.  We are certain that the matter will turn out well; when the time comes Malin himself will save us.  I don’t need to tell you to burn this letter as soon as you have read it, for it would cost me my head if a line of it were seen.  I kiss you for now and always,

Michu.

The existence of the cave was known only to Marthe, her son, Michu, the four gentlemen, and Laurence; or rather, Marthe, to whom her husband had not related the incident of his meeting with Peyrade and Corentin, believed it was known only to them.  Had she consulted her mistress and the two lawyers, who knew the innocence of the prisoners, the shrewd Bordin would have gained some light upon the perfidious trap which was evidently laid for his clients.  But Marthe, acting like most women under a first impulse, was convinced by this proof which came to her own eyes, and flung the letter into the fire as directed.  Nevertheless, moved by a singular gleam of caution, she caught a portion of it from the flames, tore off the five first lines, which compromised no one, and sewed them into the hem of her dress.  Terrified at the thought that the prisoner had been without food for twenty-four hours, she resolved to carry bread, meat, and wine to him at once; curiosity was well as humanity permitting no delay.  Accordingly, she heated her oven and made, with her mother’s help, a pate of hare and ducks, a rice cake, roasted two fowls, selected three bottles of wine, and baked two loaves of bread.  About two in the morning she started for the forest, carrying the load on her back, accompanied by Couraut, who in all such expeditions showed wonderful sagacity as a guide.  He scented strangers at immense distances, and as soon as he was certain of their presence he returned to his mistress with a low growl, looking at her fixedly and turning his muzzle in the direction of the danger.