"I am what is left of St. Hilaire," he replied lightly. "And you are—For the life of me I cannot recall your name at the moment. Though I am fully aware that I have seen you more than once before this."
"My name is Robert Tournay."
"Of course. I should have remembered it. You must pardon my poor memory." Then, looking at him closely, he continued: "You wear the uniform of a colonel. You have won distinction, and yet I see you here in prison."
"It matters not how loyal a soldier or citizen one may be if one incurs the enmity or suspicion of Robespierre," was the answer.
"What you say is true, Colonel Tournay," said St. Hilaire.
"Do you also owe your arrest to him?" asked the colonel.
"No," replied St. Hilaire, resuming his former seat. "I became involved in a slight dispute with some of the gendarmerie about a certain question of—of etiquette. The altercation became somewhat spirited. They lost their tempers. I nearly lost my life. When I regained consciousness I discovered what remained of myself here, and I am recovering as fast as could be expected, in view of the rather limited amount of fresh air and sunlight in my chamber."
Tournay thought of the brilliant and dashing Marquis Raphael de St. Hilaire as he had seen him in his boyhood, and looked with deep interest at the figure sitting easily on the edge of the table in apparent contentment, cheerfully accepting misfortune with a smile, and parrying the arrows of adversity with the best of his wit, like the brave and sprightly gentleman he was.
"The resources here are somewhat limited," St. Hilaire continued. "But by placing the table against the wall and mounting upon it one can squeeze his nose between the bars of the window and get a glimpse of the courtyard beneath. Occasionally the jailer has taken me for a promenade there. It seems that we prisoners on the second tier are considered of more importance, or else it is feared that we are more likely to attempt to escape, for we are kept in closer confinement than those who are on the main floor. Although this may be construed as a compliment, it is nevertheless very tedious. But I am keeping you from your toilet by my gossip. I have left you half of the water in the pitcher. Pardon the small quantity. We will try to prevail upon our jailer to bring us a double supply in future. He is an obliging fellow, particularly if you grease his palm with a little silver."
Tournay accepted his share of the water with alacrity grateful for the courtesy that divides with another even a few litres of indifferently clean water in a prison cell.