Now that the archives of the Bastille are accessible to historians, prison life in the eighteenth century is no longer enveloped in mystery, and this famous fortress, looked upon as the symbol of despotism, appears rather to have been a sort of hostelry where the best society was temporarily and involuntarily brought together. In spite of the meagre comforts that the abode could offer, the inmates were almost free to keep up their customary style of living. The most favoured, waited upon by their valets, had their regular reception days, entertained at supper, and were at liberty to pass through the prison-gates on merely pledging their word that they would return before sunset. The less important inmates were tolerably well catered for on payment of ten francs a day, visited their neighbours in their respective cells, and found sufficient relaxation in games of _faro_, _bouillotte_ or _biribi_. Those of a more serious turn of mind, who soon tired of such a regimen, whiled away the time in contriving plans of escape, which were often crowned with success. The prison in the castle of Dijon, though equally formidable in appearance, was not less hospitable, and the recalcitrant Chevalière found herself even better placed than on her first arrival in Burgundy, when, crowned with the aureole of misfortune, she had received the warmest reception. The Abbé Pioret, senior priest at St. John’s, the prisoners’ parish church for the time being, was one of the first to inquire after his old comrade, and to offer her such consolations as were in keeping with her condition and her present circumstances. He reminded her of the days of her childhood and of their intercourse at Versailles, and ended as follows:— As it is the duty of a pastor to seek his sheep, particularly when they are, like yourself, inclined to wander from the fold, I hope you will allow me to call upon you; kindly let me know the hour which will be most convenient to you.