“Monsieur, you visited the prisoners once. Was the man we saw lying dead in a dungeon of the Bastille my husband?” “Madame, you ask me a hard question. I had my doubts, I have them still. This man was of the same size, thin, emaciated, tall, with masses of gray hair—all these belonged to your husband; but his eyes were closed, all the sweet expression which made his face beautiful, even in that dungeon had disappeared. It may have been the work of death, but my mind rejects the identity.” “My God, help us! How are we to know? In what way can the truth be discovered?” exclaimed the woman passionately. Monsieur Jacques drew a lock of hair from his bosom, which he held toward her. “I cut this from his head. The suspicion was strong upon me, and I thought it might aid us in discovering the truth. Look! You should know the color of his hair, for this is not all gray.” Madame Gosner reached forth her hand, but drew it back again, shrinking from a touch of the hair. She dreaded the conviction it might bring, for wild as the hope was that had sprung up in her heart, she felt that all strength would go from her if it should utterly fail. She took the hair at last, something in the color reassured her. “It is darker, less silky, coarser!” she exclaimed. “His hair was like an infant’s, almost flaxen, with gleams of pale gold in it.” “But time changes the hair more than anything else,” said Monsieur Jacques. “I was wrong to think it a sure test. We must have some more certain proof.” “For another this may be insufficient, but I ask nothing more. My husband’s hair never could become so dark or coarse as this.” “Still opinion is no proof. Why should an imposition be practiced upon us? How did the governor know that a pardon was coming?” “Only through one channel. The king who signed the pardon may have taken this method of evading it.” “No, no! he never did that,” cried Marguerite. “No one else had the power,” answered Madame Gosner. “If my husband is yet alive, as I solemnly believe he is, and that I have heard his voice this day, the fraud practiced upon us was known to the king, and done under his sanction.” “I would give my life to know the truth,” murmured Marguerite. “Oh! if they would have taken my liberty in exchange for his!” Monsieur Jacques drew close to the girl and bent over her. “Would you give the man who searched out the truth, and afterward saved your father, something dearer than liberty, your love?” he said. She looked up earnestly. “As God witnesseth the promise, I will try!” Monsieur Jacques fell upon his knees, pressed a burning kiss upon her hand, dropped it, and left the room. CHAPTER L. THE DAME OF THE DAIRY. Dame Tillery called her household together, maids, grooms, and helpers, and standing at a long table in one end of the most public room in her house, proclaimed to them the high honor that day conferred on her by the queen.