Adeline did not know as yet what method she should employ to obtain access to her husband; she had formed no plan; she had no idea what steps she must take in order to speak with a prisoner; a single thought filled her mind: her Edouard was unhappy, he was languishing in prison, deprived of all consolation. For Adeline knew the world, she had shrewd suspicions that those people who crowded about Edouard in his prosperity would have abandoned him in his distress. Who then would wipe away the poor prisoner’s tears, if not his wife and his daughter? To be sure, he had cast them aside; he had formerly avoided their caresses. But when the man we love is crushed beneath the weight of misfortune, a generous soul never remembers his wrongdoing. Sans-Souci had mentioned the Conciergerie; so it was to the Conciergerie she must go. Adeline believed that her prayers, her tears, and the sight of her child, would move the jailers; she had no doubt that they would allow her to see her husband. That hope redoubled her courage. After walking to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, carrying little Ermance, who was not yet a year-and-a-half old, Adeline at last fell in with one of those wretched carriages which take Parisians into the suburbs, and to the open-air festivals. For a modest sum the driver agreed to take the young woman and her child, and headed his nags toward Paris. There was a single other traveller in the carriage with Adeline; it was an old man of about seventy years, but with a pleasant face, and an open, kindly expression which inspired confidence and respect. His dress indicated wealth without ostentation, and his manners, while they were not those of fashionable society, denoted familiarity with good company. Adeline bowed to her travelling companion and seated herself beside him, without speaking. The old gentleman scrutinized her at first with attention, then with interest. Adeline had such a noble and appealing countenance that it was impossible to look upon her without being prepossessed in her favor, and without desiring to know her better. Little Ermance was on her mother’s knees; her childish graces fascinated the old man, who gave her bonbons and bestowed some caresses upon her. Adeline thanked the old gentleman for his kindness, smiled at her daughter, then relapsed into her reflections. The traveller tried to engage the young woman in conversation; but her replies were so short, she seemed so preoccupied, that her companion feared to intrude. He said no more, but he noticed Adeline’s melancholy, he heard her sighs, and he saw that her lovely eyes were constantly turned toward Paris, and often wet with tears. He dared not try to divert her thoughts from her trouble, but he pitied her in silence.