“S-st! At nine by the convent clock, be ready to drop silently into the cart that shall pass beneath thy window. Never mind what thou hit’st on. A falling man does not despise a dunghill.” I hesitated, seeking to read this patriot’s soul. Was this all a snare to clinch my damnation? Pooh! if I had ever fancied Tinville hunted for the shadow of a pretext, this morning’s experience should have disabused me of the fallacy. “Who commissions thee?” I said. “One to whom I owe a measure of gratitude.” “But not I?” “From this time--yes.” He pushed at me to go before him. “At least,” I said, “acquaint me if it is the same that sent the letter.” “I know nothing of any letter. _San’ Dieu!_ I begin to regret my complaisance. This fellow will strangle us all with his long tongue.” “But, for thyself, my friend?” “Oh, _nom de Dieu_! I have no fear, if thou wilt be discreet--and grateful.” “And this tool--and the _rapiotage_!” “Listen then! The thief that follows a thief finds little by the road. We are under no obligation to search a prisoner remanded from another prison.” Impulsively I wrung the hand of the dear sententious; I looked into his eyes. “The Goddess of Reason disown thee!” I said. “Thou shalt never be acolyte to a harlot!--And I--if all goes well, I will remember. And what is thy name, good fellow?” “_M. un tel_,” said he, and added, “Bah! shall not thy ignorance of it be in a measure our safeguard?” “True,” said I. “And take me away, then. I cannot get to work too soon.” He opened the door, peeped out, and beckoned me. “All is well,” he whispered. “The coast is clear.”[1] As he drove me with harsh gestures across a yard, a turnkey, standing at a door and twirling a toothpick in his mouth, hailed him strenuously. “What perquisites, then, comrade?” “Bah!” cried my fellow; “I have not looked. He is a bone of Cabochon’s picking.” * * * * * * *