ned? Be
good enough to answer_."

Monsieur the Viscount hesitated for a moment, and then determined to
risk all. He tore off a bit of the paper, and with the little pencil
hurriedly wrote this reply:--

"_In secret, June 12, 1794_.

"_Louis Archambaud Jean-Marie Arnaud, Vicomte de B., supposed to have
perished in the massacres of September_, 1792. _Keep my secret. I have
been imprisoned a year and nine months. Who are_ you? _how long have_
you _been here_?"

The letter was drawn up, and he watched anxiously for the reply. It
came, and with it some sheets of blank paper.

"_Monsieur_,--_We have the honour to reply to your inquiries, and
thank you for your frankness. Henri Edouard Clermont, Baron de St.
Claire. Valerie de St. Claire. We have been here but two days. Accept
our sympathy for your misfortunes_."

Four words in this note seized at once upon Monsieur the Viscount's
interest--_Valerie de St. Claire_;--and for some reasons, which I do
not pretend to explain, he decided that it was she who was the author
of these epistles, and the demon of curiosity forthwith took
possession of his mind. Who was she? was she old or young? And in
which relation did she stand to Monsieur le Baron--that of wife, of
sister, or of daughter? And from some equally inexplicable cause
Monsieur the Viscount determined in his own mind that it was the
latter. To make assurance doubly sure, however, he laid a trap to
discover the real state of the case. He wrote a letter of thanks and
sympathy, expressed with all the delicate chivalrous politeness of a
nobleman of the old _regime_, and addressed it to _Madame la Baronne_.
The plan succeeded. The next note he received contained these
sentences:--"_I am not the Baroness. Madame my mother is, alas! dead.
I and my father are alone. He is ill, but thanks you, Monsieur, for
your letters, which relieve the_ ennui _of imprisonment. Are you
alone?_"

Monsieur the Viscount, as in duty bound, relieved the _ennui_ of the
Baron's captivity by another epistle. Before answering the last
question, he turned round involuntarily, and looked to where Monsieur
Crapaud sat by the broken pitcher. The beautiful eyes were turned
towards him, and Monsieur the Viscount took up his pencil, and wrote
hastily, "_I am not alone--I have a friend._"

Henceforward the oyster-shell took a long time to fill, and patience
seemed a harder virtue than ever. Perhaps the last fact had something
to do with the rapid decli