e heard all kinds of reports; but they do not affect me. M. de
Boiscoran has too much confidence in the excellency of his cause and the
justice of his country to think of escaping. I only came to confer with
him."

"And you are right!" exclaimed M. Daubigeon. "M. de Boiscoran is in his
cell, utterly unaware of all the rumors that are afloat. It was Trumence
who has run off,--Trumence, the light-footed. He was kept in prison for
form's sake only, and helped the keeper as a kind of assistant jailer.
He it is who has made a hole in the wall, and escaped, thinking, no
doubt, that the heavens are a better roof than the finest jail."

A little distance behind the group stood Blangin, the jailer, affecting
a contrite and distressed air.

"Take the counsel to the prisoner Boiscoran," said M. Galpin dryly,
fearing, perhaps, that M. Daubigeon might regale the public with all the
bitter epigrams with which he persecuted him privately. The jailer bowed
to the ground, and obeyed the order; but, as soon as he was alone with
M. Folgat in the porch of the building, he blew up his cheek, and then
tapped it, saying,--

"Cheated all around."

Then he burst out laughing. The young advocate pretended not to
understand him. It was but prudent that he should appear ignorant of
what had happened the night before, and thus avoid all suspicion of a
complicity which substantially did not exist.

"And still," Blangin went on, "this is not the end of it yet. The
gendarmes are all out. If they should catch my poor Trumence! That man
is such a fool, the most stupid judge would worm his secret out of him
in five minutes. And then, who would be in a bad box?"

M. Folgat still made no reply; but the other did not seem to mind that
much. He continued,--

"I only want to do one thing, and that is to give up my keys as soon as
possible. I am tired of this profession of jailer. Besides, I shall not
be able to stay here much longer. This escape has put a flea into the
ear of the authorities, and they are going to give me an assistant, a
former police sergeant, who is as bad as a watchdog. Ah! the good days
of M. de Boiscoran are over: no more stolen visits, no more promenades.
He is to be watched day and night."

Blangin had stopped at the foot of the staircase to give all these
explanations.

"Let us go up," he said now, as M. Folgat showed signs of growing
impatience.

He found Jacques lying on his bed, all dressed; and at the first glance
h