Consuelo hastened to obey, and to remake her bed before the return of the keeper, who in a very respectful manner brought her bread and water for the day. He had the air and bearing of an old major-domo, and placed the frugal prison-allowance on the table, with as much care and propriety as if it had been the most carefully prepared repast.
Consuelo looked at this man, who was old, and whose fine and gentle physiognomy at first had nothing repulsive in it. He had been selected to wait on the women, on account of his manners, his good behavior, and his discretion, beyond all trial. His name was Swartz, and he informed Consuelo of the fact.
"I live below you," said he, "and if you be sick call to me through the window."
"Have you not a wife?" said Consuelo.
"Certainly," said he, "and if you really need her, she will wait on you. It is, however, forbidden to have anything to say with female prisoners, except in special cases—the surgeon must say when. I have also a son who will share with me the honor of serving you."
"I have no need of so many servants, and if you please, Swartz, I will be satisfied with your wife and yourself."
"I know that ladies are satisfied with my age and appearance. You need not fear my son more than you do me, for he is a lad full of piety, gentleness, and firmness."
"You will not require that last quality with me. I came hither almost voluntarily, and have no wish to escape. As long as I am served decently and properly, as people seem disposed, I will submit to the prison rules, rigorous as they may be."
As she spoke thus, Consuelo, who had eaten nothing during the past twenty-four hours, and who had suffered all night with hunger, began to break the loaf and to eat it with a good appetite.
She then observed that her resignation made an impression on the old keeper, and both amazed and annoyed him.