Whereupon the stout gendarme, who had been quiet for some time, burst into tears. "In God's name, what's the matter with him?" asked the astonished warden. "He always does that way," said the gendarme Pierre. "'Tis his sympathetic nature. He gets very much attached to his prisoners. Cease thy tears, Jean, thou imbecile," and he cursed his brother gendarme under his breath. Jean drew a long sob. "Adieu, my friend," he said, throwing his arms about Gaillard's neck. "Why weepest thou?" inquired the actor pretending to be much affected. "I am afraid they will guillotine thee, my beautiful actor, before I have laughed all the brass buttons off my coat at the play." "Courage, my friend," replied Gaillard; "I trust for thy sake that I may live to act in many plays. Adieu, my gendarme," and he was led away to a cell. CHAPTER XVIII THE LUXEMBOURG Robert Tournay breathed easier after having sent the message to Gaillard by La Liberté. Gaillard at least was not likely to become implicated; and the anonymous communication once destroyed, nothing of an incriminating nature would be found, should their lodging be visited. Nevertheless, he could not repress a feeling of disquiet as the iron door of the Luxembourg clanked behind him and he found himself a prisoner. The cell into which he was conducted was absolutely dark. "It will not be so bad during the day," volunteered the jailer. "There is a small window that looks out on the courtyard." Tournay drew a sigh of thankfulness on hearing this. "Your bed is near the door. Can you see it?" asked the jailer. "I can feel for it," replied Tournay. "Yes, here it is." "Very well, I will now lock you up safely. Pleasant dreams in your new quarters, citizen colonel." And with this parting salute the cheerful jailer went jingling down the corridor, leaving Tournay in the darkness, seated on the edge of his narrow bed, with elbows on knees and his chin resting in the palms of his hands. Suddenly he sat up straight and listened attentively. The sound of regular breathing told him that he was not the sole occupant of the cell. "Whoever he may be, he sleeps contentedly," thought Tournay; "I may as well follow his good example." In a very few minutes a quiet concert of long-drawn breaths told of two men sleeping peacefully in the cell on the upper tier of the Luxembourg prison. The little daylight that could struggle through the bars of the tiny window near the ceiling had long since made its appearance, when Robert Tournay opened his eyes next morning.