I rose, showed no particular delight at seeing Voban, but greeted him easily--though my heart was bursting to ask him of Alixe--and arranged my clothes. Presently Gabord said, "Stools for barber," and, wheeling, he left the dungeon. He was gone only an instant, but long enough for Voban to thrust a letter into my hand, which I ran into the lining of my waistcoat as I whispered, "Her brother--he is well?" "Well, and he have go to France," he answered. "She make me say, look to the round window in the Chateau front." We spoke in English--which, as I have said, Voban understood imperfectly. There was nothing more said, and if Gabord, when he returned, suspected, he showed no sign, but put down two stools, seating himself on one, as I seated myself on the other for Voban's handiwork. Presently a soldier appeared with a bowl of coffee. Gabord rose, took it from him, waved him away, and handed it to me. Never did coffee taste so sweet, and I sipped and sipped till Voban had ended his work with me. Then I drained the last drop and stood up. He handed me a mirror, and Gabord, fetching a fine white handkerchief from his pocket, said, "Here's for your tears, when they drum you to heaven, dickey-bird." But when I saw my face in the mirror, I confess I was startled. My hair, which had been black, was plentifully sprinkled with white, my face was intensely pale and thin, and the eyes were sunk in dark hollows. I should not have recognized myself. But I laughed as I handed back the glass, and said, "All flesh is grass, but a dungeon's no good meadow." "'Tis for the dry chaff," Gabord answered, "not for young grass--aho!" He rose and made ready to leave, Voban with him. "The commissariat camps here in an hour or so," he said, with a ripe chuckle. It was clear the new state of affairs was more to his mind than the long year's rigour and silence. It seemed to me strange then, and it has seemed so ever since, that during all that time I never was visited by Doltaire but once, and of that event I am going to write briefly here. It was about two months before this particular morning that he came, greeting me courteously enough. "Close quarters here," said he, looking round as if the place were new to him and smiling to himself. "Not so close as we all come to one day," said I. "Dismal comparison!" he rejoined; "you've lost your spirits." "Not so," I retorted; "nothing but my liberty." "You know the way to find it quickly," he suggested. "The letters for La Pompadour?" I asked. "A dead man's waste papers," responded he; "of no use to him or you, or any one save the Grande Marquise." "Valuable to me," said I. "None but the Grande Marquise and the writer would give you a penny for them!" "Why should I not be my own merchant?"