In a moment one end of the precious rope was in Rochefort’s hands. He pulled it through into his cell, noted the length, the thickness and the knots upon it, and was satisfied. “Well, monsieur?” said the impatient Ferminard. “Well, M. Ferminard, now I have the rope in my hands I will tell you exactly how your play is going to end, in reality. The count—that is myself, for since you have put me into your play I feel myself justified in acting in it—the count is going to pull his bed to the window of his cell, tie this precious rope to the bedpost, and, crawling out of the window and dangling like a spider, he is going to descend to the ground. He will not remain stuck on a ledge, as in your version of the play, he will reach the ground—then he will pick up his heels and run to Paris, and there he will pull M. de Choiseul’s nose—or make friends with him.” “But you cannot,” replied Ferminard, not knowing exactly how to take the other. “And why cannot I?” “Because, monsieur, the bar of your window would permit you, perhaps, to lower your rope, but it would prevent you from following it.” “No, M. Ferminard, it would not.” “Ah, well, then, it must be a most accommodating bar and have altered considerably in strength since you spoke to me of it first.” “It has.” “In what way?” “Why, it has been filed almost in two.” “Ah,” cried Ferminard, “what is that you say? Filed in two—and since when?” “Since we had our first talk together.” “You have cut it then—with what?” “Heavens! can’t you guess?” “Your table-knife.” “Oaf!” “You had, then, a knife, or file, or saw or something with you.” “M. Ferminard, prison does not seem to improve your intelligence. I cut it with the little saw contained in the big sou.” “But that is impossible, for you had not the sou two minutes in your possession.” Rochefort laughed. “Open your sou, then, and see what is in it.” Leaning on his elbow, he laughed to himself as he heard Ferminard moving so as to get the sou from his pocket to open it. Then he heard the voice of Ferminard who was speaking to himself. “It is gone—he must have taken it—never!—yet it is gone.” The astonishment evident in Ferminard’s voice at the trick that had been played on him acted upon Rochefort just as the sudden stripping of the bedclothes from a person asleep acts on the sleeper. It was not stupidity on the part of Ferminard that had prevented him from guessing with what instrument the bar had been cut, it was his complete belief in Rochefort’s honour. His mind, of its own accord, could not imagine the Comte de Rochefort playing him a trick like that, and his voice now betrayed what was passing in his mind. Had Ferminard been a suspicious man, and had he discovered the abstraction of the saw on his own account, anything he might have said would not have shown Rochefort what he saw now. He felt as though, by some horrible accident, he had shot and injured his own good faith, fair name and honour.