Marguerite arose eagerly; at another time she might have hesitated, now she forgot everything in a wild desire to speak with the man who might have seen her father. They sat down together, but the girl could not eat, her heart was so full. Dame Doudel observed this, and, seeing how thin she looked, heaped her plate with bountiful hospitality. “No, I cannot, I cannot. He has seen my father, my poor, poor father, who lies buried in the dungeons of the Bastille. How can I eat or sleep, knowing this.” “Your father, child, and in the Bastille. Our Lady forbid,” said Doudel, with infinite compassion in his voice. “In the Bastille—your own father? Heaven be good to us,” exclaimed the dame, holding up both hands in amazement. “Oh, Doudel, if you know, tell her about him—tell her about him.” “His name is Gosner, Doctor Gosner, a learned man from Germany. He was torn from us when I was a child. You have seen him, you know him; his eyes are blue like mine, his hair soft and light. He was tall and slender, with a benign look. Oh, tell me about him.” The poor girl left her chair as she spoke, and clasping her hands, went round to where the guard sat, and knelt before him. “You have seen him? Oh tell me!” “Poor thing, poor, sweet child, how can I tell her?” said Doudel, appealing to his wife. “We have no names at the Bastille, nothing but numbers.” “I know the number; ah, I know that, monsieur, I——” Here the girl checked herself, remembering that Monsieur Jacques had given the number in confidence. “Yes, I know the number. It is here; I wrote it down and laid it next my heart, saying to myself, ‘some day our blessed lady will lead me to him.’ Here it is.” Doudel took the paper from her quivering fingers, and read it. “My poor child, it is down in the very depths. I know this wretched prisoner. Sometimes, I speak to him, not often; for it is against the rules. He is gentle as a lamb.” “Ah, it is like my father, every one says that.” “Once,” continued the guard, “but that is a long time ago, his hair was yellow and glossy, like yours, but it is white now; his beard is like a snow drift, his eyes weak and faded. It is an old, old man you speak of, little one.” “Ah me, I ought to expect that. In darkness and solitude so many miserable years, how could he be anything but old! Oh, monsieur, let me see him, let me look on my father’s face.” “See him, poor child, that is impossible.” Marguerite turned imploringly to Dame Doudel. “Plead for me, oh, think of some way. The good God did not send me here for nothing,” she said, lifting her clasped hands upward. “It is our child who asks this; our angel child pleading through the eyes of this poor girl. Doudel, God ordains it. She must see her father,” cried the wife with tears in her eyes. “But how, dame, how?” “You must do it, Gaston. There may be danger in it. What then, my husband is brave.”