the place on
parole, that they might together the better defy its dulness. The
prisoner was more than content.

"Beauvoir was a loyal gentleman, but, unfortunately, he was also a very
handsome youth. He had attractive features, a dashing air, a pleasing
address, and extraordinary strength. Well made, active, full of
enterprise, and loving danger, he would have made an admirable leader
of guerillas, and was the very man for the part. The commandant gave his
prisoner the most comfortable room, entertained him at his table, and
at first had nothing but praise for the Vendean. This officer was a
Corsican and married; his wife was pretty and charming, and he thought
her, perhaps, not to be trusted--at any rate, he was as jealous as a
Corsican and a rather ill-looking soldier may be. The lady took a fancy
to Beauvoir, and he found her very much to his taste; perhaps they
loved! Love in a prison is quick work. Did they commit some imprudence?
Was the sentiment they entertained something warmer than the superficial
gallantry which is almost a duty of men towards women?

"Beauvoir never fully explained this rather obscure episode of the
story; it is at least certain that the commandant thought himself
justified in treating his prisoner with excessive severity. Beauvoir was
placed in the dungeon, fed on black bread and cold water, and fettered
in accordance with the time-honored traditions of the treatment lavished
on captives. His cell, under the fortress-yard, was vaulted with hard
stone, the walls were of desperate thickness; the tower overlooked the
precipice.

"When the luckless man had convinced himself of the impossibility of
escape, he fell into those day-dreams which are at once the comfort and
the crowning despair of prisoners. He gave himself up to the trifles
which in such cases seem so important; he counted the hours and the
days; he studied the melancholy trade of being prisoner; he became
absorbed in himself, and learned the value of air and sunshine; then,
at the end of a fortnight, he was attacked by that terrible malady, that
fever for liberty, which drives prisoners to those heroic efforts of
which the prodigious achievements seem to us impossible, though true,
and which my friend the doctor" (and he turned to Bianchon) "would
perhaps ascribe to some unknown forces too recondite for his
physiological analysis to detect, some mysteries of the human will of
which the obscurity baffles science."

Bianchon sh