t at once. This was the letter:

"_In prison, 24th Prairial, year 2._

"_Fellow-sufferer, who are you? how long have you been
imprisoned? Be good enough to answer._"

Monsieur the Viscount hesitated for a moment, and then determined to
risk all. He tore off a bit of the paper, and with the little pencil
hurriedly wrote this reply:--

"_In secret, June 12, 1794._

"_Louis Archambaud Jean-Marie Arnaud, Vicomte de B. supposed
to have perished in the massacres of September, 1792. Keep
my secret. I have been imprisoned a year and nine months.
Who are you? how long have you been here?_"

The letter was drawn up, and he watched anxiously for the reply. It
came, and with it some sheets of blank paper.

"_Monsieur,--We have the honor to reply to your inquiries
and thank you for your frankness. Henri Edouard Clermont,
Baron de St. Claire. Valerie de St. Claire. We have been
here but two days. Accept our sympathy for your
misfortunes._"

Four words in this note seized at once upon Monsieur the Viscount's
interest--_Valerie de St. Claire_:--and for some reasons which I do not
pretend to explain, he decided that it was she who was the author of
these epistles, and the demon of curiosity forthwith took possession of
his mind. Who was she? was she old or young. And in which relation did
she stand to Monsieur le Baron--that of wife, of sister, or of daughter?
And from some equally inexplicable cause Monsieur the Viscount
determined in his own mind that it was the latter. To make assurance
doubly sure, however, he laid a trap to discover the real state of the
case. He wrote a letter of thanks and sympathy, expressed with all the
delicate chivalrous politeness of a nobleman of the old _regime_, and
addressed it to _Madame la Baronne_. The plan succeeded. The next note
he received contained these sentences:--"_I am not the Baroness. Madame
my mother is, alas! dead. I and my father are alone. He is ill; but
thanks you, Monsieur, for your letters, which relieve the_ ennui _of
imprisonment. Are you alone?_"

Monsieur the Viscount, as in duty bound, relieved the ennui of the
Baron's captivity by another epistle. Before answering the last
question, he turned round involuntarily and looked to where Monsieur
Crapaud sat by the broken pitcher. The beautiful eyes were turned
towards him, and Monsieur the Viscount to