The door of the prison was at length opened, and the turnkey ushered in a venerable priest, the chaplain of the prison.
“Hollo, old one!” cried the jailor, “take heart, man, here is a visitor. Here is Monsieur le Curé come to see you.”
The mendicant made no reply.
“My friend,” said the minister of the Gospel, “I am one of your brethren in Christ, and I bring you words of peace and consolation. Hear me, in the name of our Lord Jesus, who died on the cross to atone for our sins—He suffered more than you; and it depends upon yourself to be one day happy, and to dwell with him in eternal life.”
Still the prisoner spoke not.
“He sleeps,” said the kind-hearted turnkey. “If your reverence will but wait a moment I will awake him.” And he shook the mendicant, but in vain—the latter stirred not. “Oh! oh!” said the jailor, leaning over him; “but it is all over with him; he has slipped his wind—the poor fellow’s as dead as a door post.”
And, in fact, the unfortunate Philippe had ceased to live a few moments after he had been removed, that very morning, at his own request, from the infirmary to his old cell.
“Is the poor man really dead?” inquired the priest.
“Dead as a pickled herring, your reverence.”
“And without confession!—unhappy man!”