Jacques had dressed himself that morning with unusual care. A suit of clothes, discarded during the last year, had been brought forth for the occasion; and though Jacques was deficient in the high breeding which so strongly distinguished the man of birth at that period, he possessed the air and look of a man who had thought much, and would act his part bravely, whatever it might be. The wild masses of hair that usually half-concealed his eyes, was now parted, perfumed, and curled in waves that revealed the white breadth of his forehead, and the keen power of those deep-set eyes. With his coarse clothes he had flung off the slouching gait and heavy tread of a workman, and it was with the air of a person who considers the familiarity of strangers an impertinence, that he turned full upon the head keeper. “If you have been much in Paris when gentlemen happen to stir abroad, it is possible,” he said, “though I have no recollection of the honor.” He looked earnestly at Christopher as he spoke, and moved on with an appearance of so much tranquillity that the man was baffled, and muttering an excuse, walked on swinging his keys. CHAPTER XLVIII. THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH. That little group moved forward in silence; the guards restless and preoccupied; the two females, pale with expectation, and faint from the nauseous atmosphere into which they were descending. Along dark, damp passages, down slippery stairs, in and out of vaulted corridors, they made progress toward that dungeon one of the party had visited only the previous night. The door was heavy, and so sodden with damp, that the iron-headed spikes rattled in their sockets as it was swung open, and they could see water-drops glistening thickly on the walls as the light was held into the dungeon a moment before Christopher entered. At last he stepped in, and advancing to some mouldy straw that lay in a corner, spoke to the man outstretched upon it, motionless, and apparently asleep. “Wake up, number five!” exclaimed the keeper, swaying his lantern to and fro over the prostrate man. “Dr. Gosner! Dr. Gosner! Look up, if you have not outlived the name; here is your wife come to take you home!” The man did not move, his face was turned to the wall, a mass of gray hair swept back and mingled itself with the straw, in which there was the stir and sound of something creeping away from sight. Madame Gosner pushed the keeper aside, and falling upon her knees, took the gray head between her trembling hands. The moment she touched it, an awful whiteness came to her face. Seized with trembling, she turned upon the guard, her eyes full of horrible questioning, her lips apart, her teeth gleaming. She spoke no word, uttered no sound, but fell down by the dead body, lifeless, and still as it was.