St. Hilaire leaned idly with one arm on the gallery rail, while he flecked from his coat a few grains of dust with a cambric handkerchief. Suddenly he straightened himself and grasped the railing tightly with both hands.
"Good God! can it be possible?" he exclaimed to himself.
Tournay looked at him, surprised by his sudden change of manner. St. Hilaire did not notice him, but looked intently at some one in the hall below.
Tournay followed the direction of his companion's eyes and saw a young woman, with childish countenance, standing by the elbow of a woman who was seated in a chair occupied with some needlework.
"Countess d'Arlincourt," St. Hilaire continued sadly, speaking to himself. "I hoped that I had saved her."
The woman glanced upward, and her large blue eyes met St. Hilaire's gaze. After the first start of surprise her look expressed the deepest gratitude, while his denoted interest and pity.
Then he turned away. "Come citizen jailer," he said, addressing the attendant, "lead us back to our cell."
As Tournay was about to follow St. Hilaire, he saw, to his amazement, the figure of de Lacheville standing apart from the rest, in the shadow of the wall, as if he preferred the gloomy companionship of his own thoughts to the society of his fellow beings in adversity.
"Do you see that man skulking in the shadow by the wall?" asked Tournay, pointing de Lacheville out to the jailer. "When did he come here?"
"A few days ago. Either the same evening you were brought in, or the day following," was the reply.