Rascal as I am, those few simple words
your sister spoke to the judge went through and through me like a knife.
Strange, in a man like me, isn't it? I am amazed at it myself. _My_
life? Bah! I've let it out for hire to be kicked about by rascals from
one dirty place to another, like a football! It's my whim to give it
a last kick myself, and throw it away decently before it lodges on the
dunghill forever. Your sister kept a good cup of coffee hot for me, and
I give her a bad life in return for the compliment. You want to thank
me for it? What folly! Thank me when I have done something useful. Don't
thank me for that!"

He snapped his fingers contemptuously as he spoke, and walked away to
the outer door to receive the jailer, who returned at that moment.

"Well," inquired the hunchback, "has anybody asked for me?"

"No," answered Lomaque; "not a soul has entered the room. What sort of
wine did you get?"

"So-so! Good at a pinch, friend--good at a pinch."

"Ah! you should go to my shop and try a certain cask, filled with a
particular vintage."

"What shop? Which vintage?"

"I can't stop to tell you now; but we shall most likely meet again
to-day. I expect to be at the prison this afternoon. Shall I ask for
you? Good! I won't forget!" With those farewell words he went out, and
never so much as looked back at the prisoners before he closed the door.

Trudaine returned to his sister, fearful lest his face should betray
what had passed during the extraordinary interview between Lomaque and
himself. But, whatever change there might be in his expression, Rose
did not seem to notice it. She was still strangely inattentive to all
outward things. That spirit of resignation, which is the courage of
women in all great emergencies, seemed now to be the one animating
spirit that fed the flame of life within her.

When her brother sat down by her, she only took his hand gently and
said: "Let us stop together like this, Louis, till the time comes. I am
not afraid of it, for I have nothing but you to make me love life, and
you, too, are going to die. Do you remember the time when I used to
grieve that I had never had a child to be some comfort to me? I was
thinking, a moment ago, how terrible it would have been now, if my wish
had been granted. It is a blessing for me, in this great misery, that I
am childless. Let us talk of old days, Louis, as long as we can--not of
my husband; or my marriage--only of the old times, before I