This official, who was addressed diversely by Bluet as _Monsieur le Docteur_ Herment and _Monsieur l'Abbé_ Herment when he brought him in, seemed to be in about the same state of semi-drunkenness as the turnkey generally was, and to be also an inordinately vain creature. He had on his head a golden-haired wig which, while he was examining the unhappy wretch Fordingbridge, he was engaged in telling Bertie had been made from the hair of one of his _chères amies_ who loved him truly; and he also remarked that some silver buckles on his shoes had been given him by a _grande dame_ who had recently been released from the Bastille. "What of the patient?" asked the latter sternly, such observations being unwelcome to him. "Will his lunacy increase, think you?" "_Ma foi!_" exclaimed the _abbé_, or doctor, "so much so that it is my duty to warn the Society of Jesuits to be expeditious with what they have to do. Otherwise they will miss their victim, and our good Parisians will lose a spectacle. The wheel furnishes many a _fête_ in the Place de Grève." "Will they do that?" asked Bertie. "Will they execute so miserable a wretch as this?" _"Bien sûr_, they will. Was there ever a Jesuit who forgave?" "What has he done? They say he has slain a priest." But the other was not to be entrapped like this, so, with a wink, he replied: "Monsieur, you should know by now that Madame La Bastille keeps her secrets well. But this I will tell you," and he pointed as he spoke to Fordingbridge, who was writhing on his bed, though none in the room could guess whether he understood what was being said or not, "he is doomed. And since he appears likely to escape the examiners if there is much more delay, his time will not be long now. Not long. Not very long! Oh, no! _Bon jour, messieurs_, I have my report to make to the Governor. Yet, since we must not lose our friend, I will send him a draught." Whether the creature' really made his report as he said he should, and thereby hastened Fordingbridge's end, Bertie Elphinston never knew, but at any rate it came soon afterwards. It was on one night, one 14th of May, when the weather had taken an extraordinary change, and all the warmth of the coming summer seemed to have disappeared and winter to have returned, and when from their window they could see slight flakes of snow mingled with the falling rain, that Bluet, bringing in the supper, appeared to be especially solicitous that Fordingbridge should make a good meal. "_Mangez, mon ami_," he said, as the other crouched on his bed, staring round the room with the hunted expression that was always now in his eyes--"_mangez bien_. Make a good supper. _Mon Dieu!_ you eat nothing of late," and he came over to the table where the others sat and asked their permission to tempt the idiot with some meat and biscuits. Then, as he bent over to take them from the dish, he whispered significantly: "He goes to-morrow. Before daybreak."