a bath-room, a kitchen, and besides that a much
larger and better kitchen for the hospital, where
the cooking is superintended by worthy self-
denying Sisters of Charity.

That door opposite leads out of the Salle des
Incurables. Fourrier is coming out to meet us.
Would I like to see the hospital first? It is only
up this flight of steps. Certainly. Very well;
he can wait a few minutes at the bottom. The
pans I notice on the steps contain disinfectant
substances; for " the malady" has not spared the
Bagne. The hospital, roomy, airy, light, is the
acme of neatness and cleanliness. Not a trace
of offensive smell perceptible. True, the patients
are not numerous. One, an Arab, sitting up in
bed to eat some soup, has the eyes of a wild cat
caught in a trap staring out of his fleshless face.
The sheets are as white as you would wish for
yourself; but there is still the chain fastening
the sick man to his bed. It quits him only when
he ceases to breathe.

Down-stairs again to find my man. That must
be he, pale, thin, standing with his back to the
wall, surrounded by a throng. There is quite a
concourse of people of all sorts; other forçats,
douaniers, employés, and I know not what,
besides ourselves. Confidential talk is impossible,
and I must shape the interview accordingly.

Some people have real faces, others have only
facial masks; but it is not hard to distinguish
which is a face and which is only a mask put on.
The individual before me has a face; and on it
is written unmistakably "Misfortune, when it
cannot be got over, must be borne. I will go
through with this, bearing it patiently, though
sorrowfully." He trembles with emotion.

Another pair of eyes and ears afterwards
informed me that, while I was in the hospital, the
other forçats were at him with "Come, Fourrier,
pack up your things! You are going away
at last. Here is a great man come to let you
out. Make up your bundle as fast as you can!"
and such like teazing speeches.

"You are Fourrier?" I said.

"Yes, monsieur, I am."

"I should have known you from your likeness
to your sister. When I left, she and your
mother were well. They beg you to be patient
for their sakes."

The poor man bowed his head.

"The mayor of your village instructs me to
say that when you return you will be well
received and find plenty of employment."'

He looked up, touched by the assurance, but
also, I fear, a little disappointed, having, probably,
hoped for still better news. The curious group
showed no signs of retiring, so I determined to
make what use I could of their presence.

"And Maître Le Beau," I continued, raising
my voice and looking round, " a distinguished
advocate, who has carefully followed your case
from the outset, is convinced of your innocence
—that you did not commit the crime for which
you are detained here."

Sensation amongst the bystanders.

"I never did any harm to any one," was all
he answered, in a low, clear voice.

"Have you anything to say to me before I
leave?"

"Nothing, monsieur."

"I shall see your mother and your sister on
my return. Have you anything you wish me to
say to them?"

"Nothing, monsieur."

"Good-bye, then, till we meet again."

I subsequently learned, through a letter to
my friend, that he had a deal to say, but
refrained from saying it for fear of the surveillance
of spies and informers. Possibly, at the Bagne,
the slightest whisper is re-echoed to a distance
with the loudness of a speaking-trumpet.

When about to retire, I remember the sister's
request to pass on to the brother her shake of the
hand. Impossible. I could not, for the life of
me, do it. His innocence had not yet been
officially acknowledged. And, if I had, it might
have done more harm than good. Suspicion there
is easily excited. I had permission to speak to,
but not to convey anything to him. There had
been an attempt to escape that very morning.
Had I not seen a guardian examine the straw at
the bottom of a forçat's wooden shoe, as he
returned from work? So I cast a last look at the
pale-faced man, and leave the lookers-on to make
their comments and guesses.

"Is there anything more you wish to see?"
the adjutant obligingly inquires.

"I thank you, no; no more to-day." So I
slowly make my way out of the Bagne, and
relieve my chest with a long, long breath.

P.S. A petition has since been sent to the
minister that Fourrier should be medically
examined and his condition reported on. He has
been examined, and, according to the report, he
is a walking complication of disease, a
phenomenon of morbid affections. One would say the
only wonder is how a creature so afflicted can
continue to live. His vital spark must be
unusually hard to extinguish. He would be worth
engagement by a medical lecturer as an
encyclopædic illustration of human complaints.

But is such an invalid worth keeping in prison?
No. All he is good for is to consume wholesome
food, puzzle the doctors, and give worthy jailers
the trouble of locking him up. He is just as
well outside as in-doors. You may as well let
him go for a poor broken-down good-for-nothing
encumbrance. Such is the train of reasoning
which would seem to be implied by the petition
and the consequent report.

Second P.S. Returned some weeks from my
travels, I hear a rattling knock at my door;
not at all like a French knock (though it is
one), but a triumphant imitation of an English
rat-tat-too. I peep out of window, like
Shakespeare's apothecary, to put the question, " Who
knocks so loud?" Behold! It is No. 9999,
loose, free, at large, come to return my visit, and