“Have you a permit, ladies?” asked the keeper.

“From whom?”

“From M. Galpin.”

“We have no permit.”

“Then I am very sorry to have to tell you, ladies, that you cannot possibly see M. de Boiscoran.  He is kept in close confinement, and I have the strictest orders.”

Dionysia looked threatening, and said sharply,—­

“Your orders cannot apply to this lady, who is the Marchioness de Boiscoran.”

“My orders apply to everybody, madam.”

“You would not, I am sure, keep a poor, distressed mother from seeing her son!”

“Ah! but—­madam—­it does not rest with me.  I?  Who am I?  Nothing more than one of the bolts, drawn or pushed at will.”

For the first time, it entered the poor girl’s head that her effort might fail:  still she tried once more, with tears in her eyes,—­

“But I, my dear M. Blangin, think of me!  You would not refuse me?  Don’t you know who I am?  Have you never heard your wife speak of me?”

The jailer was certainly touched.  He replied,—­

“I know how much my wife and myself are indebted to your kindness, madam.  But—­I have my orders, and you surely would not want me to lose my place, madam?”

“If you lose your place, M. Blangin, I, Dionysia de Chandore, promise you another place twice as good.”

“Madame!”

“You do not doubt my word, M. Blangin, do you?”

“God forbid, madam!  But it is not my place only.  If I did what you want me to do, I should be severely punished.”

The marchioness judged from the jailer’s tone that Dionysia was not likely to prevail over him, and so she said,—­

“Don’t insist, my child.  Let us go back.”

“What?  Without finding out what is going on behind these pitiless walls; without knowing even whether Jacques is dead or alive?”

There was evidently a great struggle going on in the jailer’s heart.  All of a sudden he cast a rapid glance around, and then said, speaking very hurriedly,—­

“I ought not to tell you—­but never mind—­I cannot let you go away without telling you that M. de Boiscoran is quite well.”

“Ah!”

“Yesterday, when they brought him here, he was, so to say, overcome.  He threw himself upon his bed, and he remained there without stirring for over two hours.  I think he must have been crying.”

A sob, which Dionysia could not suppress, made Blangin start.

“Oh, reassure yourself, madame!” he added quickly.  “That state of things did not last long.  Soon M. de Boiscoran got up, and said, ’Why, I am a fool to despair!’”

“Did you hear him say so?” asked the old lady.

“Not I. It was Trumence who heard it.”

“Trumence?”

“Yes, one of our jail-birds.  Oh! he is only a vagabond, not bad at all; and he has been ordered to stand guard at the door of M. de Boiscoran’s cell, and not for a moment to lose sight of it.  It was M. Galpin who had that idea, because the prisoners sometimes in their first despair,—­a misfortune happens so easily,—­they become weary of life—­Trumence would be there to prevent it.”