Nothing can be more mournful than these ruins, enclosed within an ivy-covered wall; and nothing would indicate the use that is made of them, except the sentinel which stands day and night at the gate.  Ancient elm-trees overshadow the vast courts; and on the old walls, as well as in every crevice, there grow and bloom enough flowers to rejoice a hundred prisoners.  But this romantic prison is without prisoners.

“It is a cage without birds,” says the jailer often in his most melancholy voice.

He takes advantage of this to raise his vegetables all along the slopes; and the exposure is so excellent, that he is always the first in Sauveterre who had young peas.  He has also taken advantage of this—­with leave granted by the authorities—­to fit up very comfortable lodgings for himself in one of the towers.  He has two rooms below, and a chamber up stairs, which you reach by a narrow staircase in the thickness of the wall.  It was to this chamber that the keeper’s wife took Dionysia with all the promptness of fear.  The poor girl was out of breath.  Her heart was beating violently; and, as soon as she was in the room, she sank into a chair.

“Great God!” cried the woman.  “You are not sick, my dear young lady?  Wait, I’ll run for some vinegar.”

“Never mind,” replied Dionysia in a feeble voice.  “Stay here, my dear Colette:  don’t go away!”

For Colette was her name, though she was as dark as gingerbread, nearly forty-five years old, and boasted of a decided mustache on her upper lip.

“Poor young lady!” she said.  “You feel badly at being here.”

“Yes,” replied Dionysia.  “But where is your husband?”

“Down stairs, on the lookout, madam.  He will come up directly.”  Very soon afterwards, a heavy step was heard on the stairs; and Blangin came in, looking pale and anxious, like a man who feels that he is running a great risk.

“Neither seen nor known,” he cried.  “No one is aware of your presence here.  I was only afraid of that dog of a sentinel; and, just as you came by, I had managed to get him round the corner, offering him a drop of something to drink.  I begin to hope I shall not lose my place.”

Dionysia accepted these words as a summons to speak out.

“Ah!” she said, “don’t mind your place:  don’t you know I have promised you a better one?”

And, with a gayety which was very far from being real, she opened her little bag, and put upon the table the rolls which it contained.

“Ah, that is gold!” said Blangin with eager eyes.

“Yes.  Each one of these rolls contains a thousand francs; and here are sixteen.”

An irresistible temptation seized the jailer.

“May I see?” he asked.

“Certainly!” replied the young girl.  “Look for yourself and count.”

She was mistaken.  Blangin did not think of counting, not he.  What he wanted was only to gratify his eye by the sight of the gold, to hear its sound, to handle it.