“Thanks,” said the Vicomte rather coldly, “but you need not supervise my composition. You can read it afterwards if you have a mind to.” And as his Mercury retired grumbling to the door he began to write to Gilbert—in English. At the end of a line and a half he stopped dead. It was not the difficulties of a foreign tongue which gave him pause, it was the sudden unpleasant suspicion that he was walking into a trap, destined not, indeed, for his own undoing, but for that of the recipient of his missive, if he sent one. The demeanour of his would-be messenger, even now fidgeting with impatience, his eagerness to carry a letter, his convenient production of the means of communication, might indeed be due to cupidity, but were capable of a darker explanation. Another voice told him that his fear was born of imagination, and that when the Fates had put such a chance in his way he was a fool not to snatch at it. You are throwing away your life, perhaps, for a scruple, said Reason. Gilbert was not suspect. But Gilbert’s name, by accident or design, had figured with his own in the list of conspirators. Of what avail, too, to have refrained, in the face of strong desire, from leaving him a verbal message yesterday morning if he meant to compromise him now far more deeply by writing to him?—No, he dared not do it. He ran his pencil through the words, crushed the paper together in his hand, and rose. “I have changed my mind, M. Figaro,” he said carelessly. “There will be no letter, after all. I have forgotten my correspondent’s address.” The man looked for a second as if he were about to break out into a string of curses. Then, mastering himself, he picked up the shaving materials from the floor, observing acidly: “As the citizen pleases. I think he will be sorry before long that he refused an honest man’s offer of help.” “The price was too high,” said Louis enigmatically. “Nevertheless you will regret it, _ci-devant_,” repeated the other in a menacing tone. Watching the door close on him, Louis thought it very probable. The morning dragged by. Last night's horror had not wholly relaxed its grip, but the presence of daylight had the effect of company, and the Vicomte de Saint-Errnay would rather have died a thousand times than allow any human eye to witness his private emotions. He walked up and down reflecting, till he tired himself by the constant turning that the narrow limits of his cell required. He wondered what Gilbert was doing—what he had done when he found out. And D’Aubeville, De Périgny, and the rest—what of them? How many of them had been taken? There might be some in La Force. He had not asked because he was sure that he would not be told the truth. At any rate, their scheme was shattered for ever.