almost persuade myself that the man expects it.”

Luckily it so happened, that amongst the baggage which had been prepared for Chantilly, was comprised a considerable sum of money, besides that which he carried about him: and now drawing forth his purse, the contents of which might amount to about a thousand livres, he placed it in the hands of the Governor.

“Let me beg you to accept of this, Monsieur le Gouverneur,” said he, “not as any inducement to serve me contrary to your duty, but as a slight remuneration for the trouble which my being here must occasion.”

The smooth-spoken Governor neither testified any surprise at this proceeding, nor any sort of reluctance to accept what De Blenau proffered. The purse dropped unrejected into his open palm, and it was very evident that his future conduct would greatly depend upon the amount of its contents, according as it was above or below his expectation.

“Monseigneur,” replied he, “you are very good, and seem to understand the trouble which prisoners sometimes give, as well as if you had lived in the Bastille all your life; and you may depend upon it, as I said before, that every thing shall be done for your accommodation—always supposing it within my duty.”

“I doubt you not, Sir,” answered De Blenau, who from the moment the Governor’s fingers had closed upon the purse, could hardly help regarding him as a menial who had taken his wages: “I doubt you not; and at the present moment I should be glad of supper, if such a thing can be procured within your walls.”

“Most assuredly it can be procured to-night, Sir,” replied the Governor; “but I am sorry to say, that we have two meager days in the week, at which times neither meat nor wine is allowed by Government, even for my own table: which is a very great and serious grievance, considering the arduous duties I am often called upon to perform.”

“But of course such things can be procured from without,” said De Blenau, “and on the days you have mentioned. I beg that you would not allow my table to bear witness of any such regulations; and farther, as I suppose that you, Sir, have the command of all this, I will thank you to order your purveyor to supply all that is usual for a man of my quality and fortune, for which he shall have immediate payment through your hands.”

The tone in which De Blenau spoke was certainly somewhat authoritative for a prisoner; and feeling, as he proceeded, that he might give offence where it was his best interest to conciliate regard, he added, though not without pain,—

“When you will do me the honour to partake my fare, I shall stand indebted for your society. Shall I say to-morrow at dinner, that I shall have the pleasure of your company?”

The Governor readily accepted the invitation, more especially as the ensuing day chanced to be one of those meager days, which he held in most particular abhorrence. And now, having made some farther arrangements with De Blenau, he left him, promising to send the meal which he had demanded.

There is sometimes an art in allowing one’s self to be cheated, and De Blenau had at once perceived that the best way to bind the Governor to his interest, was, not only to suffer patiently, but even to promote every thing which could gratify the cupidity of his gaoler or his underlings; and thus he had laid much stress upon the provision of his table, about which he was really indifferent.

Well contented with the liberality of his new prisoner, and praying God most devoutly that the Cardinal would spare his life to grace the annals of the Bastille for many years, the Governor took care to send De Blenau immediately the supper which had been prepared for himself: an act of generosity, of which few gaolers, high or low, would have been guilty.

It matters little how De Blenau relished his meal; suffice it, that the civility and attention he experienced, greatly removed his apprehensions for the future, and made him imagine that no serious proceedings were intended against him. In this frame of mind, as soon as the Governor’s servants had taken away the remains of his supper, and the bolts were drawn upon him for the night, he took a book from the shelf, thinking that his mind was sufficiently composed to permit of his thus occupying it with some more pleasing employment than the useless contemplation of his own fate. But he was mistaken. He had scarcely read a sentence, before his thoughts, flying from the lettered page before his eyes, had again sought out all the strange uncertain points of his situation, and regarding them under every light, strove to draw from the present some presage for the future. Thus finding the attempt in vain, he threw the book hastily from him, in order to give himself calmly up to the impulse he could not resist. But as the volume fell from his hand upon the table, a small piece of written paper flew out from between the leaves, and after having made a circle or two in the air, fell lightly to the ground.

De Blenau carelessly took it up, supposing it some casual annotation; but the first few words that caught his eye riveted his attention. It began.

“To the next wretched tenant of these apartments I bequeath a secret, which, though useless to me, may be of service to him. To-day I am condemned, and to-morrow I shall be led to the torture or to death. I am innocent; but knowing that innocence is not safety, I have endeavoured to make my escape, and have by long labour filed through the lock of the iron door near the bed, which was the sole fastening by which it was secured from without. Unfortunately, this door only leads to a small turret staircase communicating with the inner court; but should my successor in this abode of misery be, like me, debarred from exercise, and also from all converse with his fellow prisoners, this information may be useful to him. The file with which I accomplished my endeavour is behind the shelf which contains these books. Adieu, whoever thou art! Pray for the soul of the unhappy Caply!”

As he read, the hopes which De Blenau had conceived from the comforts that were allowed him fled in air. There also, in the same apartment, and doubtless attended with the same care, had the wretched Caply lingered away the last hours of an existence about to be terminated by a dreadful and agonizing death. “And such may be my fate,” thought De Blenau with an involuntary shudder, springing from that antipathy which all things living bear to death. But the moment after, the blood rushed to his cheek, reproaching him for yielding to such a feeling though no one was present to witness its effects. “What!” thought he, “I who have confronted death a thousand times, to tremble at it now! However, let me see the truth of what this paper tells;” and entering the bed-room, he approached the iron door, of which he easily drew back the bolts, Caply having taken care to grease them with oil from the lamp, so that they moved without creating the smallest noise.

The moment that these were drawn, the slightest push opened the door, and De Blenau beheld before him a little winding stone staircase, filling the whole of one of the small towers; which containing no chambers and only serving as a back access to the apartments in the square tower, had been suffered in some degree to go to decay. The walls were pierced with loopholes, which being enlarged by some of the stones having fallen away, afforded sufficient aperture for the moonlight to visit the interior with quite enough power to permit of De Blenau’s descending without other light. Leaving the lamp, therefore, in the bed-room, he proceeded down the steps till they at once opened from the turret into the inner court, where all was moonlight and silence, it being judged unnecessary, after the prisoners were locked in for the night, to station even a single sentry in a place