When the gaoler began to describe him, whom he called the Cure, Monsieur the Viscount's attention quickened into eagerness, an eagerness deepened by the tender interest that always hangs round the names of those whom we have known in happier and younger days.

The happy memories recalled by hearing of his old tutor seemed to blot out his present misfortunes.
With French excitability, he laughed and wept alternately.
"As burly as ever, you say?
The little book?
I remember it, it was his breviary.

Ah! it is he.

It is Monsieur the Preceptor, whom I have not seen for years.

Take me to him, bring him here, let me see him!" But Monsieur the Preceptor was in Paradise.
That first night of Monsieur the Viscount's imprisonment was a terrible one.