Stunned at first, he had soon recovered; and on Friday and Saturday he had been quiet and confident, talkative, and almost cheerful.  But Sunday had been a fatal day.  Two gendarmes had carried him to Boiscoran to take off the seals; and on his way out he had been overwhelmed with insults and curses by the people who had recognized him.  He had come back terribly distressed.

On Tuesday, he had received Dionysia’s letter, and answered it.  This had excited him fearfully, and, during a part of the night, Trumence had seen him walk up and down in his cell with all the gestures and incoherent imprecations of a madman.

He had hoped for a letter on Wednesday.  When none came, he had sunk into a kind of stupor, during which M. Galpin had been unable to draw a word from him.  He had taken nothing all day long but a little broth and a cup of coffee.  When the magistrate left him, he had sat down, leaning his head on his elbows, facing the window; and there he had remained, never moving, and so deeply absorbed in his reveries, that he had taken no notice when they brought him light.  He was still in this state, when, a little after ten o’clock, he heard the grating of the bolts of his cell.  He had become so well acquainted with the prison that he knew all its regulations.  He knew at what hours his meals were brought, at what time Trumence came to clean up his room, and when he might expect the magistrate.  After night, he knew he was his own master till next morning.  So late a visit therefore, must needs bring him some unexpected news, his liberty, perhaps,—­that visitor for whom all prisoners look so anxiously.

He started up.  As soon as he distinguished in the darkness the jailer’s rugged face, he asked eagerly,—­

“Who wants me?”

Blangin bowed.  He was a polite jailer.  Then he replied,—­

“Sir, I bring you a visitor.”

And, moving aside, he made way for Dionysia, or, rather, he pushed her into the room; for she seemed to have lost all power to move.

“A visitor?” repeated M. de Boiscoran.

But the jailer had raised his lantern, and the poor man could recognize his betrothed.

“You,” he cried, “you here!”

And he drew back, afraid of being deceived by a dream, or one of those fearful hallucinations which announce the coming of insanity, and take hold of the brains of sick people in times of over-excitement.

“Dionysia!” he barely whispered, “Dionysia!”

If not her own life (for she cared nothing for that), but Jacques’s life, had at that moment depended on a single word, Dionysia could not have uttered it.  Her throat was parched, and her lips refused to move.  The jailer took it upon himself to answer,—­

“Yes,” he said, “Miss Chandore.”

“At this hour, in my prison!”

“She had something important to communicate to you.  She came to me”—­

“O Dionysia!” stammered Jacques, “what a precious friend”—­