I got up with effort and pain, and made to grasp his hand in gratitude, but he drew back, putting his arms behind him.
“No, no,” said he, “I am your jailer. They’ve put you here to break your high spirits, and I’m to help the breaking.”
“But I thank you just the same,” I answered him; “and I promise to give you as little trouble as may be while you are my jailer—which, with all my heart, I hope may be as long as I’m a prisoner.”
He waved out his hands to the dungeon walls, and lifted his shoulders as if to say that I might as well be docile, for the prison was safe enough. “Poom!” said he, as if in genial disdain of my suggestion.
I smiled, and then, after putting my hands on the walls here and there to see if they were, as they seemed, quite dry, I drew back to my couch and sat down. Presently I stooped to tip the earthen jar of water to my lips, for I could not lift it with one hand, but my humane jailer took it from me and held it to my mouth. When I had drunk, “Do you know,” asked I as calmly as I could, “if our barber gave the letter to Mademoiselle?”
“M’sieu’, you’ve travelled far to reach that question,” said he, jangling his keys as if he enjoyed it. “And if he had—?”
I caught at his vague suggestion, and my heart leaped.
“A reply,” said I, “a message or a letter,” though I had not dared to let myself even think of that.
He whipped a tiny packet from his coat. “‘Tis a sparrow’s pecking—no great matter here, eh?”—he weighed it up and down on his fingers—“a little piping wren’s par pitie.”
I reached out for it. “I should read it,” said he. “There must be no more of this. But new orders came AFTER I’d got her dainty a m’sieu’! Yes, I must read it,” said he—“but maybe not at first,” he added, “not at first, if you’ll give word of honour not to tear it.”