besides two sons, and the under-jailers, all of whom, by their
manner, seemed to have an idea that a writer of tragedies was little
better than a kind of magician. They looked grave and distant, yet
as if eager to learn more of me, had they dared to waive the
ceremony of their iron office.

In a few days I grew accustomed to their looks, or rather, I think,
they found I was not so great a necromancer as to escape through the
lead roofs, and, consequently, assumed a more conciliating
demeanour. The wife had most of the character that marks the true
jailer; she was dry and hard, all bone, without a particle of heart,
about forty, and incapable of feeling, except it were a savage sort
of instinct for her offspring. She used to bring me my coffee,
morning and afternoon, and my water at dinner. She was generally
accompanied by her daughter, a girl of about fifteen, not very
pretty, but with mild, compassionating looks, and her two sons, from
ten to thirteen years of age. They always went back with their
mother, but there was a gentle look and a smile of love for me upon
their young faces as she closed the door, my only company when they
were gone. The jailer never came near me, except to conduct me
before the special commission, that terrible ordeal for what are
termed crimes of state.

The under-jailers, occupied with the prisons of the police, situated
on a lower floor, where there were numbers of robbers, seldom came
near me. One of these assistants was an old man, more than seventy,
but still able to discharge his laborious duties, and to run up and
down the steps to the different prisons; another was a young man
about twenty-five, more bent upon giving an account of his love
affairs than eager to devote himself to his office.