"There have been men here," said the marquis, repeating the same stories over and over again to him for his comfort, "who have not given up hope for years, who have then done so and become despairing, and have then, after still more years, gone out free." After which he would tell of the Dutch doctor who had been mistaken for the Alsatian poisoner; of others who had been there ten, fifteen, twenty years, and had at last got away; indeed, to solace poor Bertie, the marquis more than once said that even he himself, after forty-three years, had not lost all courage, and hoped to spend some few of those remaining to him in freedom. Yet, as the other looked in his face and heard his sad, trembling tones, he knew that it was but pity that inspired the words; that, in his heart, De Chevagny knew he would never be released. From Falmy--by use of their letters which, in spite of the change in lodging, they could still make visible to one another--he received also many sentences of encouragement and counsel, while one day there came from that unhappy man a piece of information which once more set his heart beating with hope, and raised great expectations. "I have been joined by another prisoner," he signalled across to the window of the _calotte_. "He is, however, about to obtain his liberty--awaits only his signed acquittal from D'Argenson. If you have messages to send, he will deliver them if possible." In an instant Bertie had snatched from an old trunk that had been brought by De Chevagny the letters which he used, and a few moments later he had begun to signal a message to his mother, which he intended to augment by another to Kate. His heart beat high as he did so; he knew that, if this prisoner who was to be released was only faithful, in a few days at most the two women who loved him so would know of his whereabouts, though they were powerless to obtain his freedom. Yet, could even that be possible? Who could say? His mother might represent to the King his long and faithful services in the regiment; Kate might have powerful friends at court who could do something. With trembling hands he formed the words, letter by letter. "Tell him my name is Elphinston. Bid him seek out my mother. She lives at the Rue----" Alas! as he finished the last letter of the word "Rue," upon the _calotte_ about the tower in which Falmy was there appeared the cone-shaped shako, or cap, worn by the _corps de garde_ of the Bastille, followed by the body of a sentry, and, hastily leaving the window, he desisted from his work. He was foiled for the day at least; the sentry he knew, was set on that particular tower, and either he or those who relieved him would be there for twenty-four hours. And as he reflected that in those twenty-four hours the _acquit_ from D'Argenson might come for the prisoner who was about to be released, he felt as if he would go mad.