Escorval, that lovely retreat where he had known such happiness, where he had hoped to die the calm and serene death of the just.

And remembering his past felicity, and thinking of his vanished dreams, his eyes once more filled with tears.  But he quickly dried them on hearing the door of his cell open.

Two soldiers appeared.

One of the men bore a torch, the other, one of those long baskets divided into compartments which are used in carrying meals to the officers on guard.

These men were evidently deeply moved, and yet, obeying a sentiment of instinctive delicacy, they affected a sort of gayety.

“Here is your dinner, Monsieur,” said one soldier; “it ought to be very good, for it comes from the cuisine of the commander of the citadel.”

M. d’Escorval smiled sadly.  Some attentions on the part of one’s jailer have a sinister significance.  Still, when he seated himself before the little table which they prepared for him, he found that he was really hungry.

He ate with a relish, and chatted quite cheerfully with the soldiers.

“Always hope for the best, sir,” said one of these worthy fellows.  “Who knows?  Stranger things have happened!”

When the baron finished his repast, he asked for pen, ink, and paper.  They brought what he desired.

He found himself again alone; but his conversation with the soldiers had been of service to him.  His weakness had passed; his sang-froid had returned; he would now reflect.

He was surprised that he had heard nothing from Mme. d’Escorval and from Maurice.

Could it be that they had been refused access to the prison?  No, they could not be; he could not imagine that there existed men sufficiently cruel to prevent a doomed man from pressing to his heart, in a last embrace, his wife and his son.

Yet, how was it that neither the baroness nor Maurice had made an attempt to see him!  Something must have prevented them from doing so.  What could it be?

He imagined the worst misfortunes.  He saw his wife writhing in agony, perhaps dead.  He pictured Maurice, wild with grief, upon his knees at the bedside of his mother.

But they might come yet.  He consulted his watch.  It marked the hour of seven.

But he waited in vain.  No one came.

He took up his pen, and was about to write, when he heard a bustle in the corridor outside.  The clink of spurs resounded on the flags; he heard the sharp clink of the rifle as the guard presented arms.

Trembling, the baron sprang up, saying: 

“They have come at last!”

He was mistaken; the footsteps died away in the distance.

“A round of inspection!” he murmured.

But at the same moment, two objects thrown through the tiny opening in the door of his cell fell on the floor in the middle of the room.

M. d’Escorval caught them up.  Someone had thrown him two files.