“You are kind, my friend. So good a craftsman is not often found ready to take a sick man’s place. Give me pen and paper, I will write a line to my friend Christopher—it is not necessary to trouble the governor; but you must put forth all your strength here, for they are getting terribly anxious about the safety of their prisoners. No wonder, the damps of those vaults are enough to corrode the best lock ever forged in a single month, and after that there is no key that will turn against the rust. Still I ought not to complain, it rolls up my bill handsomely at the end of the year; and there is no lack of good wine at the Bastille after the work is done.” “I remember it,” said Jacques, with a relishing movement of the lip; “one does not readily forget such wine. I hope they will be as liberal to the man as they are to the master. Oh! you have finished the paper, and I have no time to lose.” Monsieur Jacques took up his case of tools, put the paper in his pocket, and went out, smiling cheerfully. In half an hour he stood before the draw-bridge of the Bastille, presented his note to the guard, and was admitted to the interior of the prison. He found Christopher in a guard-room, where he was giving some extra orders to half a dozen of the prison-guards, who had done something to displease him. He looked around as Jacques entered, recognized him as a person who had done duty there before, and went on with his lecture, not considering a humble blacksmith worthy of his immediate attention. Jacques sat down his tool-case, and seemed to be absorbed in the pompous reprimand Christopher was dealing out to the poor fellows who had been so unfortunate as to offend him. This attention touched the keeper’s vanity, and he launched out into more fervid eloquence for his especial benefit. At last he sent the delinquents away with a lofty wave of the hand, and bestowed his entire attention on the locksmith. “So,” he said, reaching forth his hand for the paper which Jacques gave him, “the old locksmith is down again, chained by the leg as fast as any prisoner in the Bastille. It is no time for strange hands to be let into the fortress; but if he is so ill, there is no help for it. Wait a moment; if I remember rightly you have been here before?” Monsieur Jacques would have betrayed himself by a sudden flush or pallor but for the brown hue which had been liberally imparted to his complexion that morning. As it was, a flickering light in the eye alone revealed the panic that seized upon him. It was needless. Christopher only alluded to the workman whom he remembered to have come on the same errand once before. He had not the remotest idea that he had so lately seen this man in another capacity, nor did he recognize the voice which was peculiarly rich and deep, for Jacques had put a leaden bullet under his tongue, which confused all the tones and vulgarized his speech.