At Orléans the necessity for _some_ change of air, and for taking _some_ exercise, caused the younger people, on certain days of the week, when permitted, to have recourse to the vast courtyard of the prison. Fashion here reigned as she had been wont to do at the Tuileries. Here were given concerts _al fresco_; and _les graces_ became the favourite game of the hour. It even occasionally happened—for Love, like Virtue, _will_ make his way into strange places—that affections were aroused, and attachments between young hearts worthy of a purer locality sprang up, throwing a charm over the wearisomeness of captivity. Death stood on permanent guard, looking over the wall of that vast prison; and his gaunt, long arm often plunged into the crowd below, and dragged up a victim. But each individual there, caring little for the teaching of the past or the prospects of the future, endured and yet forgot everything. Each considered every fellow-captive exposed to death, but none was without hope for himself. Like the selfish Neapolitans, who, when they see a neighbour borne to the grave, shrug their shoulders, and cry, “Salute a noi!” so did the Orléans prisoners, on losing an old companion, bury sympathy for the departed in congratulations at their own escape. It was early in a summer’s afternoon when Madame de Charry, with Edmond, entered the cell whose oldest occupant and recognized proprietor was the Countess de Bohun, a lady who had once borne the honoured name of De Girardin. A large party was assembled, and, save the locality, the hour, and the absence of lights, there was little to distinguish it from a party in the Chaussée d’Antin. Some were at cards, some were looking at pictures, some were circulating scandal, and a few were sipping _eau sucrée_, heightened as to flavour with a little capillaire. François Vouillet, the son of a chair-mender, was there playing the guitar. His poverty had not saved him from the suspicion of holding aristocratic opinions, nor had his misfortune procured for him any commiseration from the aristocrats. He attended among them as a hired musician, and he played for the dinner which he could not purchase. The appearance of the new-comers interrupted the song, for a shout of _Vive le Roi_ hailed the arrival of Edmond, and the most courteous welcomings that of his companion. M. de Bohun, who was attired in a flannel dressing-gown, and the only individual in the cell not in full dress, advanced to Madame de Charry and gallantly kissed her on the brow. “You are becoming Republican in your tastes,” said that exquisite lady, as she pointed to the flannel _robe de chambre_. “Madame,” said the Count, laughing, “I am twice as aristocratic as the Prince de Ligne, the very quintessence of a knight and a nobleman. It is not two years since we visited him at Vienna, and he received the Countess and myself in no other dress than his shirt.” “Oh!” exclaimed all the ladies at once.