This same soldier was the gaoler on duty by day, whose business it was to receive prisoners, accompany them before the governor or clerk, and then to see them safely incarcerated according to the orders of the governor. Vincennes was much more of a military prison than the Bastille. Soldiers were the gaolers, and the day went to the roll of drums and the blare of bugles, rather than to the clang of bells. Vincennes was more cheerful than the Bastille, but was reckoned less healthy. Madame de Rambouillet it was who said that the cell in which Marshal Ornano died was worth its weight in arsenic; yet of the two prisons, Vincennes was preferable, if there can be such a thing as choice between prisons. Rochefort followed his guide down the corridor, and then up a circular stone staircase to the floor above. Here they passed down another corridor, till they reached a door on the right which the sergeant opened, disclosing a room, barely furnished, yet not altogether cheerless. The grated window gave a sweeping view of the country; to the left, pressing one’s nose against the glass, one could get a glimpse of the outskirts of Paris; immediately below lay the castle moat, and running past the moat, the Paris road bordered with poplar trees. Rochefort went to the window and looked out, whilst Sergeant Bonvallot, for that was the name of his guardian, dismissed the soldier who had followed them, closed the door, and began to make arrangements for the comfort of his visitor. He inspected the water-pitcher to see if it were filled, the bed coverings to see if they were thick enough, and the sheets to see if they were clean. He knew perfectly well that all was in order, but Rochefort had the appearance of a man who would pay for little attentions, and they were cheap. “There, monsieur,” said Bonvallot, when he had finished, “I have made you as comfortable as I can. Your dinner will be served at five o’clock, your supper at nine, and should you feel cold a fire is permitted, also writing materials, should you need them—but for those you will have to pay.” Rochefort turned from the window and contemplated his gaoler fully, and for the first time. Bonvallot was a large man, with small eyes and a face that suggested good-humour. He would have made a capital innkeeper. “Why, upon my word,” said Rochefort, who knew at once how to tackle his man, “you seem to me an admirable fellow. My own servant could not have done better, and when I come to leave here, you will not have cause to regret your efforts on my behalf. Your name?” “Bonvallot, monsieur.”