if Gabord, when he
returned, suspected, he showed no sign, but put down two stools, seating
himself on one, as I seated myself on the other for Voban's handiwork.
Presently a soldier appeared with a bowl of coffee. Gabord rose, took it
from him, waved him away, and handed it to me. Never did coffee taste
so sweet, and I sipped and sipped till Voban had ended his work with me.
Then I drained the last drop and stood up. He handed me a mirror,
and Gabord, fetching a fine white handkerchief from his pocket, said,
"Here's for your tears, when they drum you to heaven, dickey-bird."

But when I saw my face in the mirror, I confess I was startled. My hair,
which had been black, was plentifully sprinkled with white, my face
was intensely pale and thin, and the eyes were sunk in dark hollows. I
should not have recognized myself. But I laughed as I handed back the
glass, and said, "All flesh is grass, but a dungeon's no good meadow."

"'Tis for the dry chaff," Gabord answered, "not for young grass--aho!"

He rose and made ready to leave, Voban with him. "The commissariat camps
here in an hour or so," he said, with a ripe chuckle.

It was clear the new state of affairs was more to his mind than the
long year's rigour and silence. It seemed to me strange then, and it has
seemed so ever since, that during all that time I never was visited by
Doltaire but once, and of that event I am going to write briefly here.

It was about two months before this particular morning that he came,
greeting me courteously enough.

"Close quarters here," said he, looking round as if the place were new
to him and smiling to himself.

"Not so close as we all come to one day," said I.

"Dismal comparison!" he rejoined; "you've lost your spirits."

"Not so," I retorted; "nothing but my liberty."

"You know the way to find it quickly," he suggested.

"The letters for La Pompadour?" I asked.

"A dead man's waste papers," responded he; "of no use to him or you, or
any one save the Grande Marquise."

"Valuable to me," said I.

"None but the Grande Marquise and the writer would give you a penny for
them!"

"Why should I not be my own merchant?"

"You can--to me. If not to me, to no one. You had your chance long ago,
and you refused it. You must admit I dealt fairly with you. I did not
move till you had set your own trap and fallen into it. Now, if you do
not give me the letters--well, you will give them to none else in this
world. It has been