“What are you thinking of, dear child?”

“Of nothing, dear papa,” she replied.

“You are sadder than usual:  why are you so?”

“Alas!  How do I know?  Does anybody know why one day we have sunshine in our hearts, and another day dismal clouds?”

But the next day she insisted upon being taken to her seamstresses, and finding Mechinet, the clerk, there, she remained a full half-hour in conference with him.  Then, in the evening, when Dr. Seignebos, after a short visit, was leaving the room, she lay in wait for him, and kept him talking a long time at the door.  Finally, the day after, she asked once more to be allowed to go and see Jacques.  They could no longer refuse her this sad satisfaction; and it was agreed that the older of the two Misses Lavarande, Miss Adelaide, should accompany her.

About two o’clock on that day they knocked at the prison-door, and asked the jailer, who had come to open the door, to let them see Jacques.

“I’ll go for him at once, madam,” replied Blangin.  “In the meantime pray step in here:  the parlor is rather damp, and the less you stay in it, the better it will be.”

Dionysia did so, or rather, she did a great deal more; for, leaving her aunt down stairs, she drew Mrs. Blangin to the upper room, having something to say to her, as she pretended.

When they came down again, Blangin told them that M. de Boiscoran was waiting for them.

“Come!” said the young girl to her aunt.

But she had not taken ten steps in the long narrow passage which led to the parlor, when she stopped.  The damp which fell from the vaulted ceiling like a pall upon her, and the emotions which were agitating her heart, combined to overwhelm her.  She tottered, and had to lean against the wall, reeking as it was with wet and with saltpetre.

“O Lord, you are ill!” cried Miss Adelaide.

Dionysia beckoned to her to be silent.

“Oh, it is nothing!” she said.  “Be quiet!”

And gathering up all her strength, and putting her little hand upon the old lady’s shoulder, she said,—­

“My darling aunty, you must render us an immense service.  It is all important that I should speak to Jacques alone.  It would be very dangerous for us to be overheard.  I know they often set spies to listen to prisoners’ talk.  Do please, dear aunt, remain here in the passage, and give us warning, if anybody should come.”

“You do not think of it, dear child.  Would it be proper?”

The young girl stopped her again.

“Was it proper when I came and spent a night here?  Alas! in our position, every thing is proper that may be useful.”

And, as Aunt Lavarande made no reply, she felt sure of her perfect submission, and went on towards the parlor.

“Dionysia!” cried Jacques as soon as she entered,—­“Dionysia!”

He was standing in the centre of this mournful hall, looking whiter than the whitewash on the wall, but apparently calm, and almost smiling.  The violence with which he controlled himself was horrible.  But how could he allow his betrothed to see his despair?  Ought he not, on the contrary, do every thing to reassure her?