since his imprisonment.

Stunned at first, he had soon recovered; and on Friday and Saturday he
had been quiet and confident, talkative, and almost cheerful. But Sunday
had been a fatal day. Two gendarmes had carried him to Boiscoran to take
off the seals; and on his way out he had been overwhelmed with insults
and curses by the people who had recognized him. He had come back
terribly distressed.

On Tuesday, he had received Dionysia's letter, and answered it. This
had excited him fearfully, and, during a part of the night, Trumence
had seen him walk up and down in his cell with all the gestures and
incoherent imprecations of a madman.

He had hoped for a letter on Wednesday. When none came, he had sunk into
a kind of stupor, during which M. Galpin had been unable to draw a word
from him. He had taken nothing all day long but a little broth and a cup
of coffee. When the magistrate left him, he had sat down, leaning his
head on his elbows, facing the window; and there he had remained, never
moving, and so deeply absorbed in his reveries, that he had taken no
notice when they brought him light. He was still in this state, when, a
little after ten o'clock, he heard the grating of the bolts of his cell.
He had become so well acquainted with the prison that he knew all its
regulations. He knew at what hours his meals were brought, at what
time Trumence came to clean up his room, and when he might expect
the magistrate. After night, he knew he was his own master till next
morning. So late a visit therefore, must needs bring him some unexpected
news, his liberty, perhaps,--that visitor for whom all prisoners look so
anxiously.