‘Imp of Satan,’ exclaimed Boivin, grinding his teeth, ‘I have never enjoyed ease or quietness since the first hour I saw you.’ ‘It may cost a couple of thousand francs, Boivin,’ said I calmly; ‘but what then? Better that than take your seat along with us to-morrow in the _Charrette Rouge_.’ ‘Maybe he’s right, after all,’ muttered the turnkey in a half-whisper; ‘speak to the commissary.’ ‘Yes,’ said I, affecting an air of great innocence and simplicity--‘tell him that a poor orphan boy, without friends or home, claims his pity.’ ‘_Scélérat infâme!_’ cried Boivin, as he shook his fist at me, and then followed the turnkey to the commissary’s apartment. In less time than I could have believed possible, Boivin returned with one of the upper gaolers, and told me, in a few dry words, that I was free. ‘But, mark me,’ added he, ‘we part here--come what may, you never shall plant foot within my doors again.’ ‘Agreed,’ said I gaily; ‘the world has other dupes as easy to play upon, and I was getting well nigh weary of you.’ ‘Listen to the scoundrel!’ muttered Boivin; ‘what will he say next?’ ‘Simply this,’ rejoined I--‘that as these are not becoming garments for me to wear--for I’m neither _père_ nor _frère_--I must have others ere I quit this.’ If the insolence of my demand occasioned some surprise at first, a little cool persistence on my part showed that compliance would be the better policy; and, after conferring together for a few minutes, during which I heard the sound of money, the turnkey retired, and came back speedily with a jacket and cap belonging to one of the drummers of the Republican Guard--a gaudy, tasteless affair enough, but, as a disguise, nothing could have been more perfect. ‘Have you not a drum to give him?’ said Boivin, with a most malignant sneer at my equipment. ‘He ‘ll make a noise in the world without that,’ muttered the gaoler, half soliloquising; and the words fell upon my heart with a strange significance. ‘Your blessing, Boivin,’ said I, ‘and we part.’ ‘_Le te_----’ ‘No, no; don’t curse the boy,’ interposed the gaoler good-humouredly. ‘Then, move off, youngster; I’ve lost too much time with you already.’ The next moment I was in the Place; a light misty rain was falling, and the night was dark and starless. The ‘Scélérat’ was brilliant with lamps and candles, and crowds were passing in and out; but it was no longer a home for me, so I passed on, and continued my way towards the Boulevard. CHAPTER IV. ‘THE NIGHT OF THE NINTH THERMIDOR’ I had agreed with the Père Michel to rendezvous at the garden of the little chapel of St. Blois, and thitherward I now turned my steps.