“You, Monsieur Jacques—you?” “I remember him well—a tall, thin man, with hair white as spun silk, and a beard falling down his bosom; the face white, and pure as an infant’s; the eyes luminous, even in the darkness of his dungeon. Was this like your husband, madame?” “It was my husband, no doubt.” “This I saw as the keeper left me for a single minute. Then the prisoner came eagerly toward me, his long white finger on his lips, his eyes burning and eager. Thrusting that paper into my hand, he whispered a name and an address. ‘Send it!’ he said. ‘For the love of God, send it!’ His hands shook, his face quivered, his teeth knocked together with affright, for he saw the jailor coming back, and feared him. “I thrust the paper into my bosom, saying only, ‘I will,’ He could not answer, for the man was near, but instantly the fire in his eyes was quenched in tears; he crept back to his corner, and sat down, with both hands to his face, weeping. “‘What was he saying?’ demanded the jailor, looking at me keenly. ‘I saw his lips move.’ “‘Did you?’ I answered, carelessly twisting a screw in its socket. ‘I did not observe, ask him.’ “My careless answer disarmed the man of his suspicions; but he did not leave me again for a moment; and when I asked the prisoner’s name, he answered, ‘We have no names here. This man has a number—that is all.’ “‘But how long has he been here?’ I asked. “‘Since the year in which Louis the Fifteenth died,’ he said. “The prisoner started up, and reached forth his hands imploringly, ‘Is the old king dead?’ he questioned. ‘Then she is queen! Will no one tell her that an innocent man suffers here? Is there no mercy in any human heart?’ “The jailor answered him by a heavy clang of the door, and a grinding noise of the lock I had just mended. I came away with the paper in my bosom, and sent it to the name whispered in my ear when it was given. It was the name of some curé in a town of Germany.” “It was for me, that poor prisoner’s wife,” cried the woman, who had been listening with intense interest. “The curé sent it to me—and then I knew that my husband was alive, and in the Bastille. It was like a revelation from the grave.” “It was that scrap of paper, pierced with pinholes, that brought you here?” said Monsieur Jacques. “It was to save him that you came to Paris?”