On March 25th, Etienne Percenez was sitting in the kitchen with the brothers Lindet, whilst Gabrielle washed dishes and forks and spoons at the sink in the window. The conversation had run upon the political movements of the day, the abuses needing correction, the rights of the people which required acknowledgment. Gabrielle had listened without much interest, and the names of Necker, Artois, Sartines, De Brienne, &c., had entered her ear without attracting her attention, when all at once it was arrested by a remark of the colporteur: ‘The Bastille and the lettres-de-cachet! Have they been protested against?’ ‘The time has not come,’ said Robert Lindet; ‘our cahiers mention grievances of which we are personally cognizant. When the States-general meet, then every nook and cranny of the old _régime_ will be searched and swept out.’ ‘What can be more iniquitous than the lettre-de-cachet?’ asked Percenez; ‘the king gives blank forms for any one to fill in, and thus lives and liberties are sacrificed without trial. Saint-Florentin gave away fifty-thousand. What became of these blank orders of imprisonment? They were matters of traffic; fathers were shut up by their sons, husbands by their wives; Government clerks, their mistresses, and the friends of the mistresses,--any pretty woman of easy virtue inconvenienced by a strait-laced husband or father or mother, with a little civility, flattery, money, could get these terrible orders by which to bury those they desired to get rid of.’ ‘And sometimes,’ said Robert, ‘the Bastille was an easy payment of a State debt. The Baron and Baroness Beausoleil spent their fortune and their time in opening valuable mines. When all their wealth was gone, they applied to Richelieu for payment, or at least a recognition of their services. The recognition was accorded them. They were shut up for life in the Bastille, apart from one another, and separated for ever from their children!’ ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Peter; ‘this is too bad. You know that the king had abolished these lettres-de-cachet. Why do you rake up old grievances which are long dead?’ ‘Dead grievances!’ said Stephen Percenez; ‘you forget, Monsieur Pierre, they are only asleep, not dead. It is true Louis XVI has forbidden the incarceration of any one at the request of their families, without a well-grounded reason. But who is to be judge of the soundness of the reason? And who forced him to decree that?--Madame Legros.’ ‘Madame Legros!’ said Gabrielle, coming forward; ‘tell me, who was she?’ ‘Did you never hear of Latude?’ asked Percenez. ‘Never,’ answered Gabrielle. ‘Was he a prisoner?’