malady, that fever for liberty, which drives prisoners to those heroic
efforts of which the prodigious achievements seem to us impossible,
though true, and which my friend the doctor" (and he turned to
Bianchon) "would perhaps ascribe to some unknown forces too recondite
for his physiological analysis to detect, some mysteries of the human
will of which the obscurity baffles science."

Bianchon shook his head in negation.

"Beauvoir was eating his heart out, for death alone could set him
free. One morning the turnkey, whose duty it was to bring him his
food, instead of leaving him when he had given him his meagre
pittance, stood with his arms folded, looking at him with strange
meaning. Conversation between them was brief, and the warder never
began it. The Chevalier was therefore greatly surprised when the man
said to him: 'Of course, monsieur, you know your own business when you
insist on being always called Monsieur Lebrun, or citizen Lebrun. It
is no concern of mine; ascertaining your name is no part of my duty.
It is all the same to me whether you call yourself Peter or Paul. If
every man minds his own business, the cows will not stray. At the same
time, _I_ know,' said he, with a wink, 'that you are Monsieur
Charles-Felix-Theodore, Chevalier de Beauvoir, and cousin to Madame
la Duchesse de Maille.--Heh?' he added after a short silence, during
which he looked at his prisoner.

"Beauvoir, seeing that he was safe under lock and key, did not imagine
that his position could be any the worse if his real name were known.

"'Well, and supposing I were the Chevalier de Beauvoir, what should I
gain by that?' said he.