The plain dark dresses, akin to mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days.
She lost her colour, and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional, thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely.
Sometimes, at night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven, was on him.
He always resolutely answered: "Nothing can happen to him without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie."
They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her father said to her, on coming home one evening:
"My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon.
When he can get to it-which depends on many uncertainties and incidents-he might see you in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can show you.
But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition."
"O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day."
From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away. When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a single day.