grating which served the purpose of preventing him from coming too close to the hole, cut deep in the enormously thick wall of his dungeon—the only orifice through which he could draw his scanty portion of air and light. As the winter came on, the poor prisoner found his room intolerably cold, being only allowed six small pieces of wood to maintain a fire during the twenty-four hours of each day. These pieces of wood were lighted on the two flagstones before mentioned. He was indebted only to the commiseration of the turnkey, after several months' confinement, for a pair of tongs and a fire-shovel. It was eight months before he could obtain permission even to purchase a teapot, and twelve before he could procure a chair on which he could sit easily. The sole article he was allowed to purchase in the beginning of his imprisonment was a new blanket.
When his jailers thought proper to order him downstairs, whether for an interrogatory, or to attend the physician, or merely through the caprice of the governor, he found all dark, silent, and deserted. The dismal croaking of the turnkey by whom he was guided served as a signal for all to disappear who might either see or be seen by him. Who might be his fellow-prisoners there he knew not; for so perfect was this system of isolation, that "father and son," says Linguet, "husband and wife—nay, a whole family—might st once be inhabitants of the Bastille, without so much as suspecting themselves to be surrounded by objects so dear to them." But though they were so careful to prevent the captives having the slightest intercourse or knowledge of each other, the doors, keys, and bolts were not silent. Their creaking, clattering, and hollow jarring resounded from
