turned
my back, and he was walking up and down, sobbing aloud. He looked
as pale as death; and the big tears were running down his cheeks in
torrents."

M. Magloire felt each one of these details like a stab at his heart. His
opinion had not materially changed since the day before; but he had had
time to reflect, and to reproach himself for his harshness.

"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 hi