“Here is your dinner, Monsieur,” said one soldier; “it ought to be very good, for it comes from the cuisine of the commander of the citadel.” M. d’Escorval smiled sadly. Some attentions on the part of one’s jailer have a sinister significance. Still, when he seated himself before the little table which they prepared for him, he found that he was really hungry. He ate with a relish, and chatted quite cheerfully with the soldiers. “Always hope for the best, sir,” said one of these worthy fellows. “Who knows? Stranger things have happened!” When the baron finished his repast, he asked for pen, ink, and paper. They brought what he desired. He found himself again alone; but his conversation with the soldiers had been of service to him. His weakness had passed; his _sang-froid_ had returned; he would now reflect. He was surprised that he had heard nothing from Mme. d’Escorval and from Maurice. Could it be that they had been refused access to the prison? No, they could not be; he could not imagine that there existed men sufficiently cruel to prevent a doomed man from pressing to his heart, in a last embrace, his wife and his son. Yet, how was it that neither the baroness nor Maurice had made an attempt to see him! Something must have prevented them from doing so. What could it be? He imagined the worst misfortunes. He saw his wife writhing in agony, perhaps dead. He pictured Maurice, wild with grief, upon his knees at the bedside of his mother. But they might come yet. He consulted his watch. It marked the hour of seven. But he waited in vain. No one came. He took up his pen, and was about to write, when he heard a bustle in the corridor outside. The clink of spurs resounded on the flags; he heard the sharp clink of the rifle as the guard presented arms. Trembling, the baron sprang up, saying: “They have come at last!” He was mistaken; the footsteps died away in the distance. “A round of inspection!” he murmured. But at the same moment, two objects thrown through the tiny opening in the door of his cell fell on the floor in the middle of the room. M. d’Escorval caught them up. Someone had thrown him two files. His first feeling was one of distrust. He knew that there were jailers who left no means untried to dishonor their prisoners before delivering them to the executioner. Was it a friend, or an enemy, that had given him these instruments of deliverance and of liberty. Chanlouineau’s words and the look that accompanied them recurred to his mind, perplexing him still more. He was standing with knitted brows, turning and returning the fine and well-tempered files in his hands, when he suddenly perceived upon the floor a tiny scrap of paper which had, at first, escaped his notice. He snatched it up, unfolded it, and read: “Your friends are at work. Everything is prepared for your escape. Make haste and saw the bars of your window. Maurice and his mother embrace you. Hope, courage!” Beneath these few lines was the letter M.