“The fame of my husband’s powers reached Marie Theresa at her court. She sent for him not long after our marriage. It was just before her daughter came to France. He went, but returned greatly disturbed, and for days was haunted by some distressing remembrance. When we mentioned the Dauphiness, he would turn pale, and go off alone, as if afraid of something. But this changed. He became tranquil as ever, and plunged deeper and deeper into those sciences which were his very life. Some happy years went by. One day my husband received a letter from France. It had come all the way by a courier in the king’s livery, who was ordered to escort the doctor to Versailles, where some person high at court wished to consult with him. “This summons disturbed us greatly. Instead of being pleased that his renown as a physician had extended so far, he looked upon the summons as a presage of evil. I felt differently, glorying in my husband. I rejoiced that his great learning, and still greater powers, had won this invitation to the court of Louis the Fifteenth, and urged his departure. He went sadly enough.” The woman paused here, and seemed to struggle with her voice against some choking sensation. “Well?” questioned Monsieur Jacques. Madame Gosner answered in a single sentence. “He never came back!” “Truly, he never did come back,” repeated Monsieur Jacques, with a strange smile. “He was away a long time—no word came to us about him. We inquired of every one who had been in France, but no tidings. At last we believed him dead. Knowing that he had arrived in Paris, we sent a person, who knew him well, to get certain tidings of his fate. This person traced him to Versailles, learned that he entered the Grand Trianon, and remained there more than an hour. It was the palace in which that vile woman, Barry, lived. After that he returned to Paris, ate some supper at the house where he lodged, and went out for a walk. A man was waiting near the door, who joined him, and they went off together. That is all.” “And you have never heard of him since?” questioned Monsieur Jacques. “Not till last year. Then a letter reached me, written on a scrap of soiled paper, and dated at the Bastille. It was in his handwriting, and bore his signature; but it said little that I could understand. This much was certain. Years and years my husband had been shut up in the horrible place. There had been no crime, no charge—and his imprisonment threatened to be eternal. Sometimes prisoners were taken out of their subterranean dungeons, and permitted to breathe the air; but he had no such privilege. Day after day, month after month, year after year, he saw no one but his keeper, who seldom spoke, but was not devoid of pity. Once he had given him a scrap of paper; on this he pierced some letters with a pin; and after waiting months and months, got it carried out into the world by a man who——” “Who was called to mend the ponderous locks of his dungeon. I was the man.”