living lips; that he knew he was not good enough for her, his queen; and
that no thought of earning her love by his devotion had prompted his
return to France, only that, if possible, he might have the great
privilege of serving her whom he loved. And then he went off into
rambling talk about petit-maitres, and such kind of expressions, said
Jacques to Flechier, the intendant, little knowing what a clue that one
word gave to much of the poor lad's suffering.

"The summer morning came slowly on in that dark prison, and when Jacques
could look round--his master was now sleeping on his shoulder, still the
uneasy, starting sleep of fever--he saw that there were many women among
the prisoners. (I have heard some of those who have escaped from the
prisons say, that the look of despair and agony that came into the faces
of the prisoners on first wakening, as the sense of their situation grew
upon them, was what lasted the longest in the memory of the survivors.
This look, they said, passed away from the women's faces sooner than it
did from those of the men.)

"Poor old Jacques kept falling asleep, and plucking himself up again for
fear lest, if he did not attend to his master, some harm might come to
the swollen, helpless arm. Yet his weariness grew upon him in spite of
all his efforts, and at last he felt as if he must give way to the
irresistible desire, if only for five minutes. But just then there was a
bustle at the door. Jacques opened his eyes wide to look.

"'The gaoler is early with breakfast,' said some one, lazily.

"'It is the darkness of this accursed place that makes us think it
early,' said another.