At these words Madame de Dey looked at the old man with an expression of desperation and terror which made him shudder, old man though he was. "Come," said she, taking his hand and leading him to her bedroom, where, after making sure that they were alone, she took from her bosom a soiled and wrinkled letter. "Read," she cried, making a violent effort to pronounce the word. She fell into her chair as if utterly overwhelmed. While the old gentleman was feeling for his spectacles and wiping them, she fastened her eyes upon him and scrutinised him for the first time with curiosity; then she said softly, in an altered voice: "I trust you." "Am I not sharing your crime?" replied the old man, simply. She started; for the first time her heart found itself in sympathy with another heart in that little town. The old merchant suddenly understood both the distress and the joy of the countess. Her son had taken part in the Granville expedition; he wrote to his mother from prison, imparting to her one sad but sweet hope. Having no doubt of his success in escaping, he mentioned three days in which he might appear at her house in disguise. The fatal letter contained heartrending farewells in case he should not be at Carentan on the evening of the third day; and he begged his mother to hand a considerable sum of money to the messenger, who had undertaken to carry that letter to her through innumerable perils. The paper shook in the old man's hand. "And this is the third day!" cried Madame de Dey, as she sprang to her feet, seized the letter, and began to pace the floor. "You have been imprudent," said the merchant; "why did you lay in provisions?" "Why, he may arrive almost starved, worn out with fatigue, and----" She did not finish. "I am sure of my brother," said the old man, "and I will go and enlist him on your side."