My mother squeezed my hand; I replied by pressing hers.
"Is there any news about them?" she asked.
"Nothing promising, Madame Dumas, nothing promising.... They are going to be taken to la Fère; then a Court-martial will try them, deliver judgment and, bang! all will be over."
The keeper made a gesture as though aiming a gun.
This horrid pantomime was but too intelligible.
"Could Alexandre have a look at them?" my mother asked.
"Why not? They are all three there in la pistole, on beds of sacking, as quiet as lambs. They have already asked for Charles a dozen times; he is as friendly with them as though he had known them for ten years."
"Oh! mother," I said in my turn, "I should much like to see them."
"All right, go with M. Richard and you shall see them—go."