th me, I
wonder?"

The situation was indeed serious. With the exception of Raoul, D'Arcy,
and John Humphreys, I had no friends, and these three could do little.
De Retz would naturally use all his powerful influence to prove my
guilt, and as likely as not I should be condemned without a trial. As
far as I could judge the future did not look particularly bright.

As soon as dawn came straggling through the window I rose and peered
about me. The room arched to support the roof, and only in the middle
was it possible to stand upright. It contained but one window, having,
both outside and inside, double iron gratings. The furniture consisted
of a worm-eaten chair, a table with a leg broken, an empty jug, a
mattress, and two flagstones on which in cold weather a fire could be
built.

Raoul once told me of a man who had escaped from the Bastille, but I
fancy he could not have been lodged in my cell. I could tell by the
window that the walls were tremendously thick, while the door was of
iron, and fastened on the outside by massive bolts. Still I was not
altogether discouraged, and, dragging the table beneath the aperture, I
climbed to the top. Crash! I had forgotten the broken leg, and fell to
the ground, wrecking the table and giving myself a considerable shock.

After that I lay down again on the mattress till about nine o'clock, as
near as I could judge, when there was a noise outside as of bolts being
withdrawn, and the turnkey entered the room with my breakfast. He was
a short, sturdy man, somewhat after the build of Pierre, but with a
more intelligent face.

"Monsieur has met with an accident?" he said, gazing with a grin at the
ruined table.

"I knocked the wretched thing over."

"Ah, it was not meant for monsieur's weight," he laughed, and putting
the breakfast on the ground, contrived to prop the table up.

"There," he exclaimed triumphantly, "now it will serve, but I would
advise monsieur not to place it in a draught, it may catch cold."

Guessing that he understood what had happened, I said, "I wished to get
a view of the scenery; there is little to look at inside. The
Bastille, or at least the prisoner's part of it, is not pretty."

"It is strong, monsieur, and one cannot have everything. Has monsieur
learned that the prince was not hurt."

"No," I cried briskly, "tell me all about it."

"There is not much to tell beyond the fact that monsieur missed his
aim."

"What! Do you really bel