“I was at my post for an hour at least,” continued the jailer, “when all of a sudden M. de Boiscoran throws himself upon the door, and begins to knock at it with his feet, and to call as loud as he can. I keep him waiting a little while, so he should not know I was so near by, and then I open, pretending to have hurried up ever so fast. As soon as I show myself he says, ‘I have the right to receive visitors, have I not? And nobody has been to see me?’--‘No one.’--‘Are you sure?’--‘Quite sure.’ I thought I had killed him. He put his hands to his forehead this way; and then he said, ‘No one!--no mother, no betrothed, no friend! Well, it is all over. I am no longer in existence. I am forgotten, abandoned, disowned.’ He said this in a voice that would have drawn tears from stones; and I, I suggested to him to write a letter, which I would send to M. de Chandore. But he became furious at once, and cried, ‘No, never! Leave me. There is nothing left for me but death.’” M. Folgat had not uttered a word; but his pallor betrayed his emotions. “You will understand, gentlemen,” Blangin went on, “that I did not feel quite reassured. It is a bad cell that in which M. de Boiscoran is staying. Since I have been at Sauveterre, one man has killed himself in it, and one man has tried to commit suicide. So I called Trumence, a poor vagrant who assists me in the jail; and we arranged it that one of us would always be on guard, never losing the prisoner out of sight for a moment. But it was a useless precaution. At night, when they carried M. de Boiscoran his supper, he was perfectly calm; and he even said he would try to eat something to keep his strength. Poor man! If he has no other strength than what his meal would give him, he won’t go far. He had not swallowed four mouthfuls, when he was almost smothered; and Trumence and I at one time thought he would die on our hands: I almost thought it might be fortunate. However, about nine o’clock he was a little better; and he remained all night long at his window.” M. Magloire could stand it no longer. “Let us go up,” he said to his colleague. They went up. But, as they entered the passage, they noticed Trumence, who was making signs to them to step lightly. “What is the matter?” they asked in an undertone. “I believe he is asleep,” replied the prisoner. “Poor man! Who knows but he dreams he is free, and in his beautiful chateau?” M. Folgat went on tiptoe to the wicket. But Jacques had waked up. He had heard steps and voices, and he had just risen. Blangin, therefore, opened the door; and at once M. Magloire said the prisoner,-- “I bring you reenforcements,--M. Folgat, my colleague, who has come down from Paris, with your mother.” Coolly, and without saying a word, M. de Boiscoran bowed. “I see you are angry with me,” continued M. Magloire. “I was too quick yesterday, much too quick.” Jacques shook his head, and said in an icy tone,--