“A private talk, why that is in any event impossible.” “Impossible, how do you mean?” “When the governor visits the prisoners, monsieur, he is always accompanied by a soldier who remains in the room. That is one of the rules of Vincennes.” “Confound your rules—There, you can leave me, I am going to get up—and do not forget the writing materials when you come next. I will write the governor a letter—or will some soldier have to read it over his shoulder?” Bonvallot went out grinning. Rochefort had paid him well for the clean linen and other attentions and he hoped for better payment still. Then Rochefort got up, still grumbling. The labours of the night before at the bar, and his dreams in which those labours were continued, had not improved his temper. He drank his coffee and ate his roll and then turned to the window to see by daylight what progress he had made with the saw. He was more than satisfied; quite elated also to find that the top part of the bar, just where it entered the stone, had become spindled by rust. Were he to succeed in cutting through the lower part a vigorous wrench would, he felt assured, bring the whole thing away. He took the little saw from the place where he had hidden it the night before, and, inspired with new energy, set to work. He felt no fear of being caught; the size of the saw made it easily hidden, the cut in the bar would only be seen were a person to make a close inspection. The noise of the saw was negligible. Whilst he was so engaged, Ferminard’s voice broke in upon his labours. “Good-morning, M. de Rochefort.” “Good-morning, M. Ferminard—what is it you want?” “Only a little conversation, monsieur.” “Well, that is impossible as I am busy.” “_Oh hé_, busy! and what are you busy about?” “I? I am writing letters.” “Pardon,” said Ferminard. “I will call on you again.” As he laboured, pausing every five minutes for five minutes’ rest, a necessity due to the cramped position in which he had to work, he heard vague sounds from Ferminard’s cell, where that individual was also, it would seem, at work. One might have fancied that two or three people were in there laughing and disputing and now quarrelling. It was Ferminard at work on one of his infernal productions, tragedy or comedy, it would be impossible to say, but making more noise in the close confines of a prison cell than it was ever likely to make in the world. After _déjeuner_, when Rochefort, tired out, was lying on his bed, the voice of Ferminard again made itself heard. “M. de Rochefort—are you inclined for a little talk?” “No,” replied M. de Rochefort. “But you may talk as much as you like and I will promise not to interrupt—for I am going to sleep.” “Well, before you go to sleep let me tell you of my new design.” “Speak.” “I have torn up the play I was writing.” “Why, M. Ferminard, have you done that?” “In order to write a better one.” “Ah, that is decidedly a good idea.” “A drama full of action.” “Hum-hum.”