However, the subject was dropped and they were soon interested in other parts of these old historic buildings. The Chief Warden conducted them through the Tower of Cæsar, into the Silver Tower, or Tower of Bon Bee. They thought of the thousand of illustrious prisoners who had been incarcerated in prison for years. Marceline could not keep from thinking of the martyred Marie Antoinette, of Elizabeth, and the little Dauphin, and of the waxen gendarmes in the museum, who watched over the Royal family. All this impressed her, and her mind was continually carried back to those stirring times. The Silver Tower had been transformed into a record office, and the modern writing desks were in striking contrast to the old medieval walls. Returning through the guard-room, they directed their steps towards the Bon Bee Tower. Théophraste had read about this tower and imagined he knew it well, so wishing to appear well informed, asked of the Warden, “Is it not there, sir, that the last meal of the Girondists was served? You ought certainly to tell us exactly where to find the table, and also the place which Camille des Moulins occupied.” The Warden replied that the Environdists had dined in the chapel and that they would soon visit it. “I wish to know Camille des Moulins’ place,” said Théophraste, “because he was a friend of mine.” “And mine also,” said Marceline, with a look towards Adolphe, which seemed to say, “Not as much as you, Adolphe.” But Adolphe laughed and said Camille was not a Girondist, he was a Franciscan friar, a friend of Danton, a Septembrian. Théophraste was vexed, and Marceline protested that if he had been anything of the sort Lucille would not have married him. Adolphe did not insist, but as they had by now reached the chamber of torture, he feigned condescendingly to be interested in the labels which adorned the drawers decorating the walls, “Hops,” “Cinnamon,” “Spice,” etc. “Here is the room in question. They have transformed it into the doctor’s store-room.” “It is just as well, perhaps,” said Théophraste, “but not so impressive.” Adolphe and Marceline were of the same opinion. They were not at all impressed. Here was the famous torture chamber. They expected something else. They were disillusioned. Outside, when viewed from the court of the Sundial, the formidable aspect of those old feudal towers, the last vestige of the palace of the French monarchy, momentarily brought fear and awe to their minds. That prison had stood a thousand years, had known so many tragedies, death rattles, legendary miseries, hidden secrets. It seemed that one only had to step inside to find an inquisition court in some dark corner, damp and funereal. Here seemed to be all the tragedies of the history of Paris, as immortal as the very walls.