“You see now, Monsieur, do you not, how much wiser it will be to drain that little vial without delay? Suppose you play the coward--suppose you are alive at nine o’clock--you here in this hole, looking death in the face--this enchanting Nanette before the altar looking into the face of her husband! Bah!” and she made a sudden grimace. “I think I should prefer your part, Monsieur. Death itself must be less hideous than Jean Briquet. All the same,” she added, “you will do well to drink with a steady hand--you will find it a pleasant death--a dropping to sleep, sweet dreams, and then--darkness. I know. I have seen others, happy, smiling, sink into the abyss. I will have La Bancale give it to you in the morning,” and she was gone. I sank down against the wall, dazed at this new stroke of fortune. Give me a day, two days, and escape might be possible--but the bargain had been made; in a few hours it would be too late. How long I lay there in a half-stupor I do not know, but at last I heard the door open again and Ninon’s voice whispering my name. I groaned for reply. “Oh, M. Pierre,” she whispered, bending over me, “I have the file. Here is the file.” “The file!” I cried. “Oh, give it me, Ninon! There is not a moment to lose.” She placed her trembling hand in mine and gave me the file. I ran my fingers over it. It was old, rusty, dull--but it had been a good file, once; doubtless part of some long-dead burglar’s kit--would it do the work? In an agony of haste I ran my hand along the chain until I found what seemed the weakest link, and set to work upon it. At the end of a few minutes I found I had made a scratch in the iron, and hope began to revive in my heart. The sound of sobbing startled me. “Is it you, Ninon?” I whispered. “Forgive me, my dear; I had forgot to thank you.” “Oh, it is not that, M. Pierre,” she sobbed. “It is not that!” “Here, sit beside me,” I said. “Let me put my arm around you--so. Now, tell me what it is.” She was silent a moment, and I could feel her little body quivering. “Oh, M. Pierre,” she whispered at last, “I heard all that Mère Fouchon said this afternoon,” and I raised my hand to her face to find it wet with tears. “Well,” I said, “what then, Ninon?” “And do you love her so very much, this Nanette?” “Yes, very much, Ninon.” “Enough to die for her, perhaps?” “Oh, yes,” I answered. “To die for her were nothing, Ninon.” “That is right, M. Pierre,” she whispered, and her voice was shaking. “That is the way to love. I have seen her. She is pretty, oh, so pretty, even though her eyes were red with weeping. Tell me, M. Pierre, must one be pretty to be loved?” “Oh, no, Ninon,” I said. “One needs only to be good. You are good, Ninon, and there will be somebody some day who will love you and who will make you happy.” She said nothing for a moment, as though pondering this answer.