Half an hour afterwards two men entered the Conciergerie. They were the Vicomte's father and an English doctor whom the Duke brought to see his son. The Director of the prison did not dare to refuse a father and physician permission to see a sick son and patient. With the turnkeys they passed an iron grate, beyond which was seen a vaulted passage, which, in the darkness, seemed interminable. On the inner side of the grate sat a morose looking man, whom nature seemed to have created exclusively to live in one of these earthly hells. His only duty was to open and shut the grate, to which he seemed as firmly attached as one of its own bars. His duty was not without danger, for in case of a mutiny, the Cerberus had orders to throw on the outside the heavy key he was intrusted with, and thus expose himself, without means of escape, to the rage of the criminals. They showed this man their pass. The key turned in the lock, and the grate permitted them to enter. It then swung to, filling the vaulted passage with its clash. Near this was a dark room, in which were several dark-browed jailers and gend'armes. The Duke and the Doctor were minutely examined. One of them, whose features hidden by a dirty cap might recall one of the persons of this history, left the group, opened the grate, and disappeared rapidly, just as a new jailer guided the visitors to a long corridor in one of the cells, on opening which was the Vicomte D'Harcourt. On a miserable pallet, in a kind of dark cellar, into which the day seemed to penetrate reluctantly, through a grated window, was René D'Harcourt, the last hope of an illustrious house, without air or any of the attentions his situation demanded. The Duke wept to see him. René, with hollow cheeks, and eyes sparkling with a burning fever, arose with pain and extended his arms to his father, who embraced him tenderly.