Monsieur Jacques went to his room and prepared, with more trepidation than he had ever felt in his life, for the enterprise which would give him the only object he asked for on earth, or throw him back into utter disappointment. Once more he flung off all the appearances of a gentleman, and put himself on a level with the rudest workmen of the city. The thick masses of his hair were dulled with powdered dust, his brows and lashes were darkened, and with a few touches of the pencil, dark circles under the eyes deepened them almost to blackness. Directly a stout, high-shouldered mechanic, in coarse workman’s clothes, and carrying a box of tools in his hand, came out of the room; a cap of faded cloth was on his head, and his hair fell in unkept locks over his forehead, half concealing his eyes. Marguerite saw him pass the door, and a faint smile stirred her lip. It was in this guise she had first seen him, and the memory of all his kindness since that day made the heart swell in her bosom. Monsieur Jacques cast one glance through the door, and went on his way, nerved by the look with which those beautiful eyes had followed him. He passed through several streets, nodding now and then to a fellow workman whom he chanced to encounter, and at last entered the shop of a gunsmith and general worker in iron, where he seemed to be well known. “Is the master no better?” he inquired of an apprentice, who was working at a vise near one of the windows. The boy looked up, blew some iron-filings from his fingers, and answered carelessly, “No better, and cross-grained as a file. Step in yonder, you will find him there, I suppose.” Monsieur Jacques went into the inner room to which the lad pointed, and found his friend in a great easy chair, with his night-cap on, nursing an unfortunate leg, which was cruelly tortured with the rheumatism. “Ah! you have come at last; that young reprobate out yonder protested that he did not know where to find you. Can anything be more aggravating? Here is the governor wanting me at the Bastille. Some prisoner has nearly battered down one of the crazy doors, and so wrenched the lock, that they can neither get in or out of his cell. So there is a chance that the fellow may starve to death for his pains, for I could not walk a step to save my life.” The locksmith gave a dash at his aching leg, as if violence could help the matter, and, settling back in his chair, waited for his visitor to speak. “I heard that you were ill, and happened to remember that this was your usual day for service at the prison. Having represented you before, I suppose they will accept me again. If there are keys to be fitted, let me have them; and if you will write a line to the governor, saying that I am sent as the most trusty of your workmen, it will save all trouble about the admission.”