"_Ordinairement_," replied Bluet, while he glanced at the marquis, who was again warming himself at the fire, "no one does. But this is different. The minister sent a day or so ago asking if there was one incarcerated here of his name. They say the primate, Tencin, stirred him to it. Then--then--_voyez-vous_--D'Argenson's secretary came and--poof!--we hear many things, we jailors! D'Argenson will come himself to-morrow night, and, _mort de ma vie!_ we shall lose the prison flower! Where--where will he go to? May the good God protect him!" The name of Tencin roused many bitter reflections in Bertie's heart, many recollections of how it was this cardinal and archbishop who had been the mainspring, the prime mover, in the Scots' invasion of--of--was it a year ago, or two years ago? He had to pause and count over to himself the time ere he could recollect, for he seemed to have lost all power now of reckoning the period that he had been in the Bastille. Then, when he had arrived at the remembrance that he had absolutely been here for two winters and was in the third December of his detention, his mind went back to the name of Tencin again. Tencin, he repeated--Tencin, the minister who brought about the invasion of England, who was the friend, almost, indeed, the patron, of his own master, Charles Edward. Yet he, a devoted follower and adherent of that Prince, a man who had followed him until the last, had had to suffer so cruel an imprisonment as this which he had undergone! Tencin! Would he allow that if he knew of it? Would he let one who had served the Prince so well be incarcerated there? It might be not, if he but knew that such was the case. Only, how could the fact be brought to the powerful cardinal's knowledge? That was the question. He glanced at the marquis, who was still sitting gazing into the embers, and he remembered that Bluet had said again, before he left the _calotte_ with the remains of the supper, "Break it to him if you can." Well, he would try and break it to him; only, he prayed Heaven that in the breaking he might not kill the old man with the shock. And, if that did not happen, then--why, then, perhaps, through him the cardinal might be apprised of how a faithful adherent of the cause he had championed was wrongfully immured in the Bastille--immured, neglected, and forgotten. "Monsieur de Chevagny," he said, drawing up another chair by the side of the old man, "are you fatigued to-night? You seem so--seem more weary than usual. You are not ill?" In truth, the old marquis had been presenting signs of late that his strength was failing rapidly, and that he was fast nearing the only escape from the Bastille that had for forty-five years seemed likely to come to him; and to-night he appeared even more feeble, as well as more absent-minded and lethargic, than ever; also he was more dazed than was his wont. But he replied: