The old prisoner still haunted his cell in the ruined Bastille, which he had barricaded with loose stones, and made so difficult of access, that no one but himself and Marguerite was likely to find it out. His irregular habits and frequent wanderings had ceased to excite much interest in his home. It was always understood that Marguerite could find him when she desired, and Madame Gosner was by far too busy working out the downfall of her enemies to give much heed to the childish old man, who could not be made to remember what she had been to him. Marguerite guarded her father’s secret well. When he was missing from home, she alone knew where to find him, and a sweet companionship grew up between the father and child in the ruins of his former prison. The gentle pity of a truly feminine nature drew her to those gaunt ruins almost every nightfall, for she knew that among them would be found that patient and gentle sufferer, who felt more real companionship with the tiny animal, which had been the sole comfort of his unjust imprisonment, than the tumultuous life of the streets had afforded him. The desolate loneliness of those heaped up stones was a safe place for the young girl, as it proved a secret shelter for the man, and both felt a mournful pleasure in meeting where they could be entirely alone. Perhaps some stray gleam of insanity had crept out of those dark years of solitude into the brain of the old prisoner—but it was of a kind so dreamy and gentle that a poet would have called it inspiration. He loved the little animal that had loved him with childlike idolatry, and the sweet face of that young girl was like that of an angel to him, for she alone had the power to link his present dreamy state with a heavenly remembrance of his young life in Germany. True, he could not even yet recognize her as his own child, because that pretty creature had banished out of his life, but he loved to hear her call him father, and gave her the name of Therese, which, from first to last, was obstinately withheld from his wife. One night, while the moon was at its full, Marguerite crossed the shattered draw-bridge of the old Bastille, and found her way down among the disjointed stones in which the old prisoner’s cell had been. He was there sitting in a patch of moonlight, that lay like a silver flag across the entrance, talking softly to his little favorite, who was creeping up his garments and clinging to his beard, or sheltering itself under his hand, flitting hither and thither like a wingless bird. The old man started up wildly, and uttered a faint cry as Marguerite broke up the silver of the moonlight. “Don’t be afraid, father, it is only Marguerite,” said the girl, in gentle haste to reassure the trembling man. “Oh, yes! I—I thought it was the other,” he said, “some one from the great city. Would you think it? They follow me—they suspect.” “Suspect what, my father?”