He remained on his knees, looking up at his fellow-prisoner with a

lively look for a prison. A sunburnt, quick, lithe, little man, though

rather thickset. Earrings in his brown ears, white teeth lighting up his

grotesque brown face, intensely black hair clustering about his brown

throat, a ragged red shirt open at his brown breast. Loose, seaman-like

trousers, decent shoes, a long red cap, a red sash round his waist, and

a knife in it. 'Judge if I come back from Naples as I went! See here, my master! Civita

Vecchia, Leghorn, Porto Fino, Genoa, Cornice, Off Nice (which is in

there), Marseilles, you and me. The apartment of the jailer and his keys

is where I put this thumb; and here at my wrist they keep the national

razor in its case--the guillotine locked up.'

The other man spat suddenly on the pavement, and gurgled in his throat.

Some lock below gurgled in its throat immediately afterwards, and then

a door crashed. Slow steps began ascending the stairs; the prattle of

a sweet little voice mingled with the noise they made; and the

prison-keeper appeared carrying his daughter, three or four years old,

and a basket. 'How goes the world this forenoon, gentlemen? My little one, you see,

going round with me to have a peep at her father's birds. Fie, then!

Look at the birds, my pretty, look at the birds.'

He looked sharply at the birds himself, as he held the child up at

the grate, especially at the little bird, whose activity he seemed to

mistrust. 'I have brought your bread, Signor John Baptist,' said he

(they all spoke in French, but the little man was an Italian); 'and if I

might recommend you not to game--'

'You don't recommend the master!' said John Baptist, showing his teeth

as he smiled. 'Oh! but the master wins,' returned the jailer, with a passing look of

no particular liking at the other man, 'and you lose. It's quite another

thing. You get husky bread and sour drink by it; and he gets sausage of

Lyons, veal in savoury jelly, white bread, strachino cheese, and good

wine by it. Look at the birds, my pretty!'

'Poor birds!' said the child. T

he fair little face, touched with divine compassion, as it peeped

shrinkingly through the grate, was like an angel's in the prison. John

Baptist rose and moved towards it, as if it had a good attraction for

him. The other bird remained as before, except for an impatient glance

at the basket. 'Stay!' said the jailer, putting his little daughter on the outer ledge

of the grate, 'she shall feed the birds. This big loaf is for Signor

John Baptist. We must break it to get it through into the cage. So,

there's a tame bird to kiss the little hand! This sausage in a vine

leaf is for Monsieur Rigaud. Again--this veal in savoury jelly is for

Monsieur Rigaud. Again--these three white little loaves are for Monsieur

Rigaud. Again, this cheese--again, this wine--again, this tobacco--all

for Monsieur Rigaud. Lucky bird!'




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