He picked up his lantern, and added, gayly: 

“But let us go—­my father cannot harangue those soldiers forever.”

“But,” insisted M. de Courtornieu, “you have not told me——­”

“I will tell you all, but not here.  Come, come!”

They went out, locking the door behind them; and then the baron rose from his knees.

All sorts of contradictory ideas, doubts, and conjectures filled his mind.

What could this letter have contained?  Why had not Chanlouineau used it to procure his own salvation?  Who would have believed that Martial would be so faithful to a promise wrested from him by threats?

But this was a time for action, not for reflection.  The bars were heavy, and there were two rows of them.

M. d’Escorval set to work.

He had supposed that the task would be difficult.  It was a thousand times more so than he had expected; he discovered this almost immediately.

It was the first time that he had ever worked with a file, and he did not know how to use it.  His progress was despairingly slow.

Nor was that all.  Though he worked as cautiously as possible, each movement of the instrument across the iron produced a harsh, grating sound that froze his blood with terror.  What if someone should overhear this noise?  And it seemed to him impossible for it to escape notice, since he could plainly distinguish the measured tread of the guards, who had resumed their watch in the corridor.

So slight was the result of his labors, that at the end of twenty minutes he experienced a feeling of profound discouragement.

At this rate, it would be impossible for him to sever the first bar before daybreak, What, then, was the use of spending his time in fruitless labor?  Why mar the dignity of death by the disgrace of an unsuccessful effort to escape?

He was hesitating when footsteps approached his cell.  He hastened to seat himself at the table.

The door opened and a soldier entered, to whom an officer who did not cross the threshold remarked: 

“You have your instructions, Corporal, keep a close watch.  If the prisoner needs anything, call.”

M. de Escorval’s heart throbbed almost to bursting.  What was coming now?

Had M. de Courtornieu’s counsels carried the day, or had Martial sent someone to aid him?

“We must not be dawdling here,” said the corporal, as soon as the door was closed.

M. d’Escorval bounded from his chair.  This man was a friend.  Here was aid and life.

“I am Bavois,” continued the corporal.  “Someone said to me just now:  ’A friend of the Emperor is in danger; are you willing to lend him a helping hand?’ I replied:  ‘Present,’ and here I am!”

This certainly was a brave soul.  The baron extended his hand, and in a voice trembling with emotion: 

“Thanks,” said he; “thanks to you who, without knowing me, expose yourself to the greatest danger for my sake.”