timid disposition, alike taciturn and restless, one thought alone possessed and ruled him,--the servile accomplishment of the King’s orders. To discuss them would have seemed a crime to him; to seek to interpret them appeared superfluous. He answered for the prisoners confided to his care. The height of the walls, the depth and width of the moats, the vigilance of the sentinels, the carefulness of the watchmen, the strength of the iron gratings, did not suffice to calm the inquietude of his suspicious mind. In endeavouring to dissipate it, he did not content himself with informing Louvois of the most minute details, the most puerile circumstances; his scruples and uneasiness were everlastingly reviving. Everything was in his eyes a matter for suspicion, and his troubled imagination never ceased to foresee pretended plans of flight. A stranger visiting Pignerol, and regarding the citadel with a little attention, immediately became an object of suspicion to him and was arrested, subjected to a long examination, and imprisoned for a length of time.[344] Every month he had a list drawn up of strangers arriving in the town,[345] with the view of noticing the names which appeared in it too frequently. The linen of his prisoners before leaving the donjon was carefully plunged into a tub of water, and then dried at a fire in the presence of officers charged in rotation to assure themselves of the absence of all writing upon it.[346] The least change observed in the habits of the prisoners was a source of painful worry to Saint-Mars, appearing to him in the light of a mysterious signal designed to expedite a criminal attempt; and one day, after his usual visit and long search in the rooms of Fouquet and De Lauzun, not having been able to discover the slightest sign of anything abnormal,[347] he was at first surprised and then very much alarmed. This absence of signals doubtless seemed to him a signal of itself. For the rest, an honest man,[348] greedy of gain,[349] but seeking it only by legitimate means, insensible to the reproaches of his prisoners, finding in the sentiment of having done his duty sufficient strength to be able to disdain their abuse, and acting humanely on the very rare occasions when their safety did not seem to be compromised. After having perused his frank and unaffected correspondence, in which one has a complete portrait of him, one is almost tempted to pity Saint-Mars as much as his prisoners, because, while enjoying as little liberty as they did, he was to some extent their victim, being secretly preyed upon by the incessant and painful fear of their escape. The continual inquietude by which he was agitated rendered him a prematurely old man, and contemporaries represent him as bent in figure, very thin, his head, hands, and entire body[350] trembling; in a word, overwhelmed by the heavy burden of the responsibility which weighed him down.