the truth?"

Cyprien hesitated, but he said again:

"I do not know."

"Then good-night, my dear fellow!" said Gudel. "Here is a loaf of bread
for you, rascal that you are!"

Irene hastened from the dungeon, and when they had again ascended the
stairs, Gudel said to her:

"These fellows are all alike, after all!"

"What are you trying to do?" asked Irene.

"It is simple enough. Instead of poison, Fanfar took a narcotic, and
lies as if dead. He will be buried, of course, but we will look out for
that, and he will be taken care of."

The shock to Irene was so great that she burst into passionate weeping.
Gudel was doing his best to soothe her, when suddenly the door was
thrown open and Bobichel rushed in, all pale and dishevelled.

"Oh! master," he cried, "all is lost! There is to be an autopsy. One of
the great physicians advises it."

Irene uttered a shriek of agony and dropped on her knees.

"Run!" she cried, "the truth must be made known at once. Oh! save him!"

Gudel tore his hair. Suddenly a thought struck him.

"Who is the physician?"

"Dr. Albant, from the Tuileries."

Iron Jaws reflected. He took Irene's hands in his.

"I am but a poor fellow, dear lady, only a strolling player, but I swear
to you that Fanfar shall be saved!"

Irene was comforted.

CHAPTER XL.

BETWEEN CHARYBDIS AND SCYLLA.

The situation was indeed a terrible one. Bobichel's words were true.

When Fanfar fell as if dead, it was supposed that it was an attack of
apoplexy, and some good people ventured to call it a judgment from
heaven for his crimes. Others again spoke of poison, and arraigned the
governor of the prison for carelessness. There was one physician among
those who were called in who could not agree with the others. He used a
number of scientific expressions, but the fact remained the same--Fanfar
was dead. But there was so much discussion that a post-mortem
examination was deemed essential. The body, therefore, was carried on a
litter to the hospital, where he was examined by a crowd of curious
medical students, who declared that he was so splendidly developed that
he ought to have lived to be a hundred years old.

A messenger was sent to Dr. Albant, and the dissecting table was
prepared.

This time the plan of the heroes of the right had failed. Fanfar was
alive, but he would certainly be killed now, as his torpidity was so
great that he would not utter a cry or a groan until the instruments
to