n such happiness, where
he had hoped to die the calm and serene death of the just.

And remembering his past felicity, and thinking of his vanished dreams,
his eyes once more filled with tears. But he quickly dried them on
hearing the door of his cell open.

Two soldiers appeared.

One of the men bore a torch, the other, one of those long baskets
divided into compartments which are used in carrying meals to the
officers on guard.

These men were evidently deeply moved, and yet, obeying a sentiment of
instinctive delicacy, they affected a sort of gayety.

"Here is your dinner, Monsieur," said one soldier; "it ought to be very
good, for it comes from the cuisine of the commander of the citadel."

M. d'Escorval smiled sadly. Some attentions on the part of one's jailer
have a sinister significance. Still, when he seated himself before the
little table which they prepared for him, he found that he was really
hungry.

He ate with a relish, and chatted quite cheerfully with the soldiers.

"Always hope for the best, sir," said one of these worthy fellows. "Who
knows? Stranger things have happened!"

When the baron finished his repast, he asked for pen, ink, and paper.
They brought what he desired.

He found himself again alone; but his conversation with the soldiers had
been of service to him. His weakness had passed; his _sang-froid_ had
returned; he would now reflect.

He was surprised that he had heard nothing from Mme. d'Escorval and from
Maurice.

Could it be that they had been refused access to the prison? No, they
could not be; he could not imagine that there existed men sufficiently
cruel to prevent a doomed man from pressing to his heart, in a last
embrace, his wife and his son.

Yet, how was it that neither the baroness nor Maurice had made an
attempt to see him! Something must have prevented them from doing so.
What could it be?

He imagined the worst misfortunes. He saw his wife writhing in agony,
perhaps dead. He pictured Maurice, wild with grief, upon his knees at
the bedside of his mother.

But they might come yet. He consulted his watch. It marked the hour of
seven.

But he waited in vain. No one came.

He took up his pen, and was about to write, when he heard a bustle in
the corridor outside. The clink of spurs resounded on the flags; he
heard the sharp clink of the rifle as the guard presented arms.

Trembling, the baron sprang up, saying:

"They have come at last!"

He was mistaken