And yet he did not sleep. He did not even attempt to lie down, but paced the room impatiently, trying at times to sit down quietly, then rising to recommence his walk to and fro, waiting for the daylight with feverish impatience. He undid his bed, rumpled it to make it look as if it had been slept in, and going downstairs knocked gently at the concierge's room to have the front door opened. He then hastened through the deserted streets to the prison of La Bourbe, without once asking his way, for the directions Leonard had given him were firmly engraved on his memory, and arrived there sooner than he had expected. When the grey and red mass of Port-Royal Abbey rose before him, his heart beat wildly. It was in one of those buildings, now transformed into a prison, that his mother and his _fiancée_ were immured! It was within those walls that they suffered, that they wept bitter tears in their utter despair, thinking surely of him, wondering what had been his fate! And the reality appeared even more desperate now! In his haste to reach them Olivier had not considered how to gain admittance to the prison. In a moment all the difficulty of such an undertaking rushed on his mind, as he stood alone and helpless before those massive walls. Trying to solve the problem, he devised schemes only to discard them as impracticable. He no longer scanned the windows, for fear of attracting attention. He suspected a spy in every passer-by. Once he even tried to assume a smile, thinking his mental agony might be seen on his face. He put on an air of indifference, making a _détour_ of the prison, carelessly examining everything to avert suspicion. At last, thoroughly worn out, he moved away, vaguely hoping to find a happy inspiration in some lonely spot, where he could be more master of himself. To whom could he turn for assistance? He knew no one. All the friends of his family, formerly settled in Paris, were now either abroad or in prison, if they had not perished on the scaffold or in the war. And then he thought of the Englishman Vaughan. Where was he to be found? In prison, perhaps, arrested with the others in the forest. Everything was possible. A sudden idea flashed across his mind, an idea which, however, he quickly rejected, judging it imprudent. He had wandered into the Rue des Lions, the neighbourhood of his grandfather's town house, and had thought of Benoit, the porter. Was he still there? He shrugged his shoulders despairingly, just remembering that the mansion was now the property of the State. The neighbours might also recognise him, and he would compromise himself uselessly.