“He brought me here. He will permit me to come again and again. Now and then, I shall send you a little fruit, fresh out of the sunshine.” The prisoner laughed, and patted her head like a thankful child. “And a flower which the good Doudel can hide in his bosom. We—mamma and I—will think of nothing but you. Some day we shall come with the king’s order and take you home with us.” The prisoner shook his head. The idea of freedom seemed to give him little pleasure. Nor did he question about his wife. His feeble memory could not disconnect the child in his arms from the woman who was most vividly on his mind, as a bride. Marguerite was, from that day, both mother and child to that solitary man. After a while, Doudel went into the passage, and came back with some sodden black bread and a pitcher of water, which he placed on the dungeon floor, saying gently to Marguerite, “It will be dangerous to stay longer.” Marguerite cast her eyes on the repulsive food, and shuddered. “Not that—not that,” she cried. “Oh God! make us thankful. There is something in the bottom of my basket. The good dame put it there, lest I should be hungry before my flowers were sold. See, here it is.” Marguerite thrust her hand eagerly among the flowers, and drew forth a tiny loaf of white bread, and two purple figs. “Take these—take these!” she said, tearing one of the figs apart, and holding its juicy pulp to the old man’s lips. “They are fresh; they are sweet. Oh! thank God that they were in my basket. See how he eats, how he loves them. Oh, my good kind Doudel, was there ever happiness like this?” “I have tasted these before,” said the prisoner, earnestly, pausing a moment in his delicious repast, to examine the half devoured fig; “but the name—I cannot remember the name.” “Must we go? Oh! for another ten minutes. It is such pleasure to see him eat; but we will come again. Oh, I will be so crafty, so cautious; but then it shall not be long now. I will find my way to the king, or be trampled to death under the hoofs of his horses.” “Do not go near the king; he is a hard old man. It was he who put me here,” said the prisoner. “No wife or child of mine, shall go near enough to look in his evil face.” “That king is dead long ago,” answered Marguerite. “I should have no hope if he was on the throne.” “Dead! Is he dead, and I living here? Well, well; I cannot understand it. Louis the Fifteenth is gone. Then who rules in France?” “His grandson, who was the Dauphin.” “And the Queen?” “Is Marie Antoinette of Austria.” “Marie Antoinette of Austria?” A look of wild inquiry, more vivid than anything the prisoner had expressed yet, flashed over his face; but Marguerite had no time for questions or answers.