oath and curse, proclaimed himself a partizan
of the losing side—a follower of a ci–devant
aristocrat. It was quite enough. He received
one or two good blows, which were, in
act, aimed at his master; and then, almost
before he was aware, he found his arms
pinioned behind him witli a woman's garter,
which one of the viragos in the crowd had
made no scruple of pulling off in public, as
soon as she heard for what purpose it was
wanted. Poor Jacques was stunned and
unhappy,—his master was out of sight, on
before; and the old gardener scarce knew
whither they were taking him. His head
ached from the blows which had fallen upon
it, it was growing dark,—June day though it
was,—and when first he seems to have
become exactly aware of what had happened to
him, it was when he was turned into one of
the larger rooms of the Abbaye, in which all
were put who had no other allotted place
wherein to sleep. One or two iron lamps
hung from the ceiling by chains, giving a dim
light for a little circle. Jacques stumbled
forwards over a sleeping body lying on the
ground. The sleeper wakened up enough to
complain; and the apology of the old man in
reply caught the ear of his master, who,
until this time, could hardly have been
aware of the straits and difficulties of his
faithful Jacques. And there they sate,—
against a pillar, the livelong night, holding
each other's hands, and each restraining
expressions of pain, for fear of adding to the
other's distress. That night made them
intimate friends, in spite of the difference of
age and rank. The disappointed hopes, the
acute suffering of the present, the apprehensions
of the future, made them seek solace in talking
of the past. Monsieur de Créquy
and the gardener found themselves
disputing with interest in which chimney of the
stack the starling used to build,—the starling
whose nest Clément sent to Urian, you
remember,—and discussing the merits of
different espalier–pears which grew, and may
grow still, in the old garden of the Hôtel de
Créquy. Towards morning both fell asleep.
The old man wakened first. His frame was
deadened to suffering, I suppose, for he felt
relieved of his pain; but Clément moaned
and cried in feverish slumber. His broken
arm was beginning to inflame his blood. He
was, besides, much injured by some kicks
from the crowd as he fell. As the old man
looked sadly on the white, baked lips, and
the flushed cheeks, all contorted with
suffering even in his sleep, Clément gave a sharp
cry, which disturbed his miserable neighbours,
all slumbering around in uneasy
attitudes. They bade him be silent with curses;
and then turning round, tiled again to forget
their own misery in sleep. For you see, the
bloodthirsty canaille had not been sated with
guillotining and hanging all the nobility they
could find, but were now informing, right
and left, even against each other; and when
Clément and Jacques were in the prison,
there were few of gentle blood in the place,
and fewer still of gentle manners. At the
sound of the angry words and threats, Jacques
thought it best to awaken his master from
his feverish, uncomfortable sleep, lest he
should provoke more enmity; and, tenderly
lifting him up, he tried to adjust his own
body, so that it should serve as a rest and a
pillow for the younger man. The motion
aroused Clément, and he began to talk in a
strange, feverish way,—of Virginie, too,—
whose name he would not have breathed
in such a place, had he been quite himself.
But Jacques had as much delicacy of feeling
as any lady in the land, although, mind you,
he knew neither how to read nor write,—and
bent his head low down, so that his master
might tell him in a whisper what messages
he was to take to Mademoiselle de Créquy
in case——Poor Clément, he knew it
must come to/ that! no escape for him now,
in Norman disguise or otherwise! Either
by gathering fever or guillotine, death was
sure of his prey. Well! when that happened,
Jacques was to go and find Mademoiselle de
Créquy, and tell her that her cousin loved
her at the last as he had loved her at the
first; but that she should never have heard
another word of his attachment from his
living lips; that he knew he was not good
enough for her, his queen; and that no
thought of earning her love by his devotion
had prompted his return to France, only that,
if possible, he might have the great privilege
of serving her whom he loved. And then
he went off into rambling talk about
petit–maîtres, and such kind of expressions, said
Jacques to Flechiér, the intendant, little
knowing what a clue that one word gave to
much of the poor lad's suffering.

"The summer morning came slowly on in
that dark prison, and when Jacques could
look round—his master was now sleeping on
his shoulder, still the uneasy, starting sleep
of fever,—he saw that there were many
women among the prisoners. (I have heard
some of those who have escaped from the
prisons, say that the look of despair and
agony that came into the faces of the
prisoners on first wakening, as the sense of their
situation grew upon them, was what lasted
the longest in the memory of the survivors.
This look, they said, passed away from the
women's faces sooner than it did from those
of the men.

"Poor old Jacques kept falling asleep, and
plucking himself up again for fear lest, if he
did not attend to his master, some harm might
come to the swollen, helpless arm. Yet his
weariness grew upon him in spite of all his
efforts, and at last he felt as if he must give
way to the irresistible desire, if only for five
minutes. But just then there was a bustle at the
door. Jacques opened his eyes wide to look.

"'The gaoler is early with breakfast,' said
some one, lazily.