I see Mrs. Blangin at the door: let us be careful."

They came nearer. Mrs. Blangin saluted them.

"Come, it is time," said the young girl. "Till to-morrow, dear papa! Go
home quickly, and be not troubled about me."

Then joining the keeper's wife, she disappeared inside the prison.

X.

The prison of Sauveterre is in the castle at the upper end of town, in a
poor and almost deserted suburb. This castle, once upon a time of great
importance, had been dismantled at the time of the siege of Rochelle;
and all that remains are a few badly-repaired ruins, ramparts with
fosses that have been filled up, a gate surmounted by a small belfry, a
chapel converted into a magazine, and finally two huge towers connected
by an immense building, the lower rooms in which are vaulted.

Nothing can be more mournful than these ruins, enclosed within an
ivy-covered wall; and nothing would indicate the use that is made
of them, except the sentinel which stands day and night at the gate.
Ancient elm-trees overshadow the vast courts; and on the old walls, as
well as in every crevice, there grow and bloom enough flowers to rejoice
a hundred prisoners. But this romantic prison is without prisoners.

"It is a cage without birds," says the jailer often in his most
melancholy voice.

He takes advantage of this to raise his vegetables all along the
slopes; and the exposure is so excellent, that he is always the first in
Sauveterre who had young peas. He has also taken advantage of this--with
leave granted by the authorities--to fit up very comfortable lodgings
for himself in one of the towers. He has two rooms below, and a chamber
up stairs, which you reach by a narrow staircase in the thickness of the
wall. It was to this chamber that the keeper's wife took Dionysia with
all the promptness of fear. The poor girl was out of breath. Her heart
was beating violently; and, as soon as she was in the room, she sank
into a chair.

"Great God!" cried the woman. "You are not sick, my dear young lady?
Wait, I'll run for some vinegar."

"Never mind," replied Dionysia in a feeble voice. "Stay here, my dear
Colette: don't go away!"

For Colette was her name, though she was as dark as gingerbread, nearly
forty-five years old, and boasted of a decided mustache on her upper
lip.

"Poor young lady!" she said. "You feel badly at being here."

"Yes," replied Dionysia. "But where is your husband?"

"Down stairs, on the lookout, madam. He will come u