For the first time, it entered the poor girl’s head that her effort might fail: still she tried once more, with tears in her eyes,-- “But I, my dear M. Blangin, think of me! You would not refuse me? Don’t you know who I am? Have you never heard your wife speak of me?” The jailer was certainly touched. He replied,-- “I know how much my wife and myself are indebted to your kindness, madam. But--I have my orders, and you surely would not want me to lose my place, madam?” “If you lose your place, M. Blangin, I, Dionysia de Chandore, promise you another place twice as good.” “Madame!” “You do not doubt my word, M. Blangin, do you?” “God forbid, madam! But it is not my place only. If I did what you want me to do, I should be severely punished.” The marchioness judged from the jailer’s tone that Dionysia was not likely to prevail over him, and so she said,-- “Don’t insist, my child. Let us go back.” “What? Without finding out what is going on behind these pitiless walls; without knowing even whether Jacques is dead or alive?” There was evidently a great struggle going on in the jailer’s heart. All of a sudden he cast a rapid glance around, and then said, speaking very hurriedly,-- “I ought not to tell you--but never mind--I cannot let you go away without telling you that M. de Boiscoran is quite well.” “Ah!” “Yesterday, when they brought him here, he was, so to say, overcome. He threw himself upon his bed, and he remained there without stirring for over two hours. I think he must have been crying.” A sob, which Dionysia could not suppress, made Blangin start. “Oh, reassure yourself, madame!” he added quickly. “That state of things did not last long. Soon M. de Boiscoran got up, and said, ‘Why, I am a fool to despair!’” “Did you hear him say so?” asked the old lady. “Not I. It was Trumence who heard it.” “Trumence?” “Yes, one of our jail-birds. Oh! he is only a vagabond, not bad at all; and he has been ordered to stand guard at the door of M. de Boiscoran’s cell, and not for a moment to lose sight of it. It was M. Galpin who had that idea, because the prisoners sometimes in their first despair,--a misfortune happens so easily,--they become weary of life--Trumence would be there to prevent it.” The old lady trembled with horror. This precautionary measure, more than any thing else, gave her the full measure of her son’s situation. “However,” M. Blangin went on, “there is nothing to fear. M. de Boiscoran became quite calm again, and even cheerful, if I may say so. When he got up this morning, after having slept all night like a dormouse, he sent for me, and asked me for paper, ink, and pen. All the prisoners ask for that the second day. I had orders to let him have it, and so I gave it to him. When I carried him his breakfast, he handed me a letter for Miss Chandore.” “What?” cried Dionysia, “you have a letter for me, and you don’t give it to me?”