Chanlouineau’s words and the look that accompanied them recurred to his mind, perplexing him still more.
He was standing with knitted brows, turning and returning the fine and well-tempered files in his hands, when he suddenly perceived upon the floor a tiny scrap of paper which had, at first, escaped his notice.
He snatched it up, unfolded it, and read:
“Your friends are at work. Everything is prepared for your escape. Make haste and saw the bars of your window. Maurice and his mother embrace you. Hope, courage!”
Beneath these few lines was the letter M.
But the baron did not need this initial to be reassured. He had recognized Abbe Midon’s handwriting.
“Ah! he is a true friend,” he murmured.
Then the recollection of his doubts and despair arose in his mind.
“This explains why neither my wife nor son came to visit me,” he thought. “And I doubted their energy—and I was complaining of their neglect!”
Intense joy filled his breast; he raised the letter that promised him life and liberty to his lips, and enthusiastically exclaimed: