His first feeling was one of distrust.  He knew that there were jailers who left no means untried to dishonor their prisoners before delivering them to the executioner.

Was it a friend, or an enemy, that had given him these instruments of deliverance and of liberty.

Chanlouineau’s words and the look that accompanied them recurred to his mind, perplexing him still more.

He was standing with knitted brows, turning and returning the fine and well-tempered files in his hands, when he suddenly perceived upon the floor a tiny scrap of paper which had, at first, escaped his notice.

He snatched it up, unfolded it, and read: 

“Your friends are at work.  Everything is prepared for your escape.  Make haste and saw the bars of your window.  Maurice and his mother embrace you.  Hope, courage!”

Beneath these few lines was the letter M.

But the baron did not need this initial to be reassured.  He had recognized Abbe Midon’s handwriting.

“Ah! he is a true friend,” he murmured.

Then the recollection of his doubts and despair arose in his mind.

“This explains why neither my wife nor son came to visit me,” he thought.  “And I doubted their energy—­and I was complaining of their neglect!”

Intense joy filled his breast; he raised the letter that promised him life and liberty to his lips, and enthusiastically exclaimed: 

“To work! to work!”

He had chosen the finest of the two files, and was about to attack the ponderous bars, when he fancied he heard someone open the door of the next room.

Someone had opened it, certainly.  The person closed it again, but did not lock it.

Then the baron heard someone moving cautiously about.  What did all this mean?  Were they incarcerating some new prisoner, or were they stationing a spy there?

Listening breathlessly, the baron heard a singular sound, whose cause it was absolutely impossible to explain.

Noiselessly he advanced to the former communicating door, knelt, and peered through one of the interstices.

The sight that met his eyes amazed him.

A man was standing in a corner of the room.  The baron could see the lower part of the man’s body by the light of a large lantern which he had deposited on the floor at his feet.  He was turning around and around very quickly, by this movement unwinding a long rope which had been twined around his body as thread is wound about a bobbin.

M. d’Escorval rubbed his eyes as if to assure himself that he was not dreaming.  Evidently this rope was intended for him.  It was to be attached to the broken bars.

But how had this man succeeded in gaining admission to this room?  Who could it be that enjoyed such liberty in the prison?  He was not a soldier—­or, at least, he did not wear a uniform.

Unfortunately, the highest crevice was in such a place that the visual ray did not strike the upper part of the man’s body; and, despite the baron’s efforts, he was unable to see the face of this friend—­he judged him to be such—­whose boldness verged on folly.