Once she had tried to count the black minutes marked for her by the drip of the water；but soon this mournful labour of a sick brain had discontinued of itself and left her in stupor once more.
At length，one day—or one night（for mid-day and mid-night had the same hue in this sepulchre）—she heard above her a louder noise than the turnkey generally made when bringing her loaf of bread and pitcher of water.She raised her head，and was aware of a red gleam of light through the crevices of the sort of door or trap in the roof of the vault.At the same time the massive lock creaked，the trap-door grated on its hinges，fell back，and she saw a lantern，a hand，and the lower part of the bodies of two men，the door being too low for her to see their heads.The light stabbed her eyes so sharply that she closed them.
When she opened them again the door was closed，the lantern placed on one of the steps，and one of the two men alone was standing before her.A black monk's robe fell to his feet，a cowl of the same hue concealed his face；nothing of his person was visible，neither his face nor his hands—it was simply a tall black shroud under which you felt rather than saw that something moved.For some moments she regarded this kind of spectre fixedly，but neither she nor it spoke.They might have been two statues confronting one another.Two things only seemed alive in this tomb：the wick of the lantern that sputtered in the night air and the drop of water falling with its monotonous splash from the roof and making the reflection of the light tremble in concentric circles on the oily surface of the pool.
At last the prisoner broke the silence.'Who are you？'
'A priest.'
The word，the tone，the voice made her start.
The priest continued in low tones：
'Are you prepared？'
'For what？'
'For death.'
'Oh！'she exclaimed，'will it be soon？'
'To-morrow.'
Her head，raised with joy，fell again on her bosom.
''Tis very long to wait，'she sighed；'why not to-day？It could not matter to them.'
'You are，then，very wretched？'asked the priest after another silence.
'I am very cold，'said she.
She took her two feet in her hands—the habitual gesture of the unfortunate who are cold，and which we have already remarked in the recluse of the Tour-Roland—and her teeth chattered.
From under his hood the priest's eyes appeared to be surveying the dungeon.'No light！no fire！in the water！—'tis horrible！'
'Yes，'she answered with the bewildered air which misery had given her.'The day is for every one，why do they give me only night？'
'Do you know，'resumed the priest after another silence，'why you are here？'
'I think I knew it once，'she said pressing her wasted fingers to her brow as if to aid her memory；'but I do not know now.'
Suddenly she began to weep like a child.'I want to go away from here，sir.I am cold，I am frightened，and there are beasts that crawl over me.'
'Well，then—follow me！'And so saying，the priest seized her by the arm.The unhappy girl was already frozen to the heart's core，but yet that hand felt cold to her.
'Oh，'she murmured，''tis the icy hand of Death！Who are you？'
The priest raised his cowl.She looked—it was the sinister face that had so long pursued her，the devilish head that she had seen above the adored head of her P us，the eye that she had last seen glittering beside a dagger.
This apparition，always so fatal to her，which thus had thrust her on from misfortune to misfortune，even to an ignominious death，roused her from her stupor.The sort of veil that seemed to have woven itself over her memory was rent aside.All the details of her grewsome adventures，from the nocturnal scene at La Falourdel's to her condemnation at La Tournelle，came back to her with a rush—not vague and confused as heretofore，but distinct，clear-cut，palpitating，terrible.These recollections，well-nigh obliterated by excess of suffering，revived at sight of that sombre figure，as the heat of the fire brings out afresh upon the blank paper the invisible writing traced on it by sympathetic ink.She felt as if all the wounds of her heart were reopened and bleeding at once.
'Ah！'she cried，her hands covering her face with a convulsive shudder，'it is the priest！'
Then she let her arms drop helplessly and sat where she was，her head bent，her eyes fixed on the ground，speechless，shaking from head to foot.
The priest gazed at her with the eye of the kite which after long hovering high in the air above a poor lark cowering in the corn，gradually and silently lessening the formidable circles of its flight，now suddenly makes a lightning dart upon its prey and holds it panting in its talons.
'Finish，'she murmured in a whisper，'finish—the last blow！'And her head shrank in terror between her shoulders like the sheep that awaits the death-stroke of the butcher.
'You hold me in horror then？'he said at last.
She made no reply.
'Do you hold me in horror？'he repeated.
Her lips contracted as if she smiled.'Go to，'said she，'the executioner taunts the condemned！For months he has pursued me，threatened me，terrified me！But for him，my God，how happy I was！It is he who has cast me into this pit！Oh，heavens！it is he who has killed—it is he who has murdered him—my P us！'
Here，bursting into tears，she lifted her eyes to the priest.'Oh，wretch！who are you？—what have I done to you that you should hate me so？Alas！what have you against me？'
'I love thee！'cried the priest.
Her tears ceased suddenly.She regarded him with an idiotic stare.He had sunk on his knees before her and enveloped her in a gaze of flame.
'Dost thou hear？I love thee！'he cried again.
'What love is that！'she shuddered.
'The love of the damned！'he answered.
Both remained silent for some minutes，crushed under the load of their emotion—he distraught，she stupefied.
