He is ill, but thanks you, Monsieur, for your letters, which relieve the_ ennui _of imprisonment.

Are you alone ?_" Monsieur the Viscount, as in duty bound, relieved the _ennui_ of the Baron's captivity by another epistle.

Before answering the last question, he turned round involuntarily, and looked to where Monsieur Crapaud sat by the broken pitcher.

The beautiful eyes were turned towards him, and Monsieur the Viscount took up his pencil, and wrote hastily, "_I am not alone--I have a friend._" Henceforward the oyster-shell took a long time to fill, and patience seemed a harder virtue than ever.

Perhaps the last fact had something to do with the rapid decline of Monsieur the Viscount's health.