Before eleven, therefore, they were on the road to Nîmes. A carriage had been obtained at St. Césaire, and the priest, Rosaline, and Babet sat within it, while M. de Baudri rode beside it and a guard of dragoons followed at a short distance. Rosaline felt herself to be on the way to an open grave, and she leaned back in her corner with closed eyes. No one spoke, and the drive was taken in silence. Finally they passed through the Porte de France and then proceeded more slowly through the streets. The noises of the city aroused the poor girl a little, and she looked out, only to shrink again from the curious stare of the crowd. On the carriage went, turning at last into a long street and then stopping at the door of the common jail. Happily for Rosaline, she did not recognize it, though she shuddered as she passed under the grim portal with Père Ambroise. They were alone, the others remaining without, and they were admitted with but little parley. Like a somnambulist, the girl passed through a gloomy corridor and saw the jailer unfastening the bolts of a strong door. The man threw it open and stood back, and Rosaline did not heed his remark to the priest. “You are just in time, _mon père_,” he said, with a brutal laugh. They stood at the entrance of a narrow cell lighted by one small window, and on the wretched pallet lay the motionless form of Madame de St. Cyr. At the sight of her grandmother’s face Rosaline awoke from her dream and running forward, fell on her knees beside her with a cry of surprise and anguish. Père Ambroise hastily closed the door behind him; he did not need to look a second time to see that M. de Baudri was to be defrauded of one victim. “Speak to me, _grand’mère_,” Rosaline cried pitifully. “Oh, _mon Dieu_, why did I ask for one night to decide? Twelve hours ago I might have saved her!” The sound of a beloved voice often rouses even the dying; Madame de St. Cyr stirred and opened her eyes. They dwelt lovingly on the girl for a moment, and then memory returned and an expression of horror came into her face. “Merciful Heaven!” she gasped, rallying her forces. “Are you here, my darling?--now is death bitter indeed!” “She is safe,” Père Ambroise interposed, his heart touched at last; “I will protect her.” The old woman gave him a look of ineffable gratitude; she was almost beyond speech, but she laid one hand feebly on Rosaline’s head, and her lips moved as she blessed her. “Thank the _bon Dieu_,” she murmured faintly, “the old tree was cut--down--and the flower--spared! Weep not, my child. Beyond--there is peace.” Rosaline’s slender frame was shaken with agony. “Live for me, _grand’mère_!” she cried; “now indeed am I desolate--and I would have saved you!”