.

"What do you desire, citoyenne?"

"First, to have a cell to myself, if possible. I will pay for it."

"That will be a difficult matter; but I think I can arrange it. And what
else?"

"I wish to send a letter to a person who is very dear to me."

"His name?"

"Coursegol. He lives at the house of Citizen Vauquelas, where I was
living myself when I was arrested in his absence. You may see the
contents of the letter and assure yourself that it contains nothing
objectionable."

"Very well," replied the jailer, moved with compassion by the
misfortunes of this beautiful young girl. "I will conduct you to a cell
where you will be alone, and where you will have an opportunity to write
your letter."

As he spoke, he led Dolores to a small room on the second floor, lighted
by a grated window, opening upon the court-yard.

"You can remain here as long as you like. No one shall come to trouble
you. Meals are served in the refectory, unless a prisoner desires them
in his own apartment, at a charge of six francs per day."

"I shall have no money until the letter I am about to write reaches its
destination," said Dolores. "It took all I had to pay for the carriage
that brought me here."

"I will give you credit," replied the jailer. "No no; do not thank me.
It always pays to be accommodating. I will now go for pen, ink and
paper."

The worthy man withdrew but soon returned, bringing the desired
articles. Dolores wrote a hasty note to Coursegol, informing him of her
arrest and that of Philip, and begging him to send her some money at
once. The jailer promised that the letter should be delivered some time
during the day. Then he departed. Dolores, left in solitude, fell upon
her knees and prayed for Philip. She had never loved him so fondly as
now; and the misfortune that had befallen her would have been nothing
had it been alleviated by the joy of knowing that her lover was near
her.

She spent the day alone, and she was really surprised at her own
calmness. Comforted by the immortal hopes that are ever awakened in the
Christian's soul by the prospect of death, and elevated to an ideal
world by the exciting events of the previous evening and by the eloquent
confession of Philip, as well as by her own, life seemed despicable,
unworthy of her; and she felt that she could leave it without a regret.
Toward evening, the jailer returned. He brought back the letter she had
given him. Coursegol could not be found; he was no