“Well, monsieur, I have only been here a very short time, yet, being an indefatigable worker, the moment I arrived I demanded writing materials and set to work upon a drama that has long been in my mind. Now it is my habit when working to walk to and fro and to act, as it were, my work even before it is on paper.” “Yes,” said Rochefort, laughing, “I heard you once; go on.” “Well, monsieur, I chanced to stamp upon the floor whilst impersonating the character of Raymond, the villain of my piece, and the floor, where I stamped upon it, sounded hollow. ‘Ah ha!’ said I, ‘what is this?’ I found a flag loose and raised it, and what did I find there but a hole.” “Yes?” “And in the hole, a knotted rope some forty feet long, a staple, and a big sou.” “_Ma foi_! But what do you mean by a big sou?” “Why, monsieur, a big sou is a sou that has been split in two pieces and hollowed out, then a thread is made round the edges so that the two halves can be screwed together, so as to form a little box.” “And what can be held in a box so small?” “A saw, monsieur, made from a watch-spring, a little thing enough, but able to cut through the thickest bar of iron.” “And does your big sou hold such a saw?” “It does, monsieur.” “_Ciel_! what a marvel, what industry; and to think that some poor devil of a prisoner made all that, and got his rope ready, and then perhaps died or was removed before he could use it!” “Yes, monsieur, he had everything ready. The thing is a little tragedy in itself, and is even completed by this hole.” Rochefort laughed. “And how can a hole complete a tragedy, Monsieur Ferminard?” “Why, quite simply, Monsieur de Rochefort. The window in this chamber is too narrow to permit the passage of a man’s body, so, doubtless, the prisoner was anxious to reach your chamber. Of what dimensions is your window?” “Large enough to get through for an ordinary-sized man.” “There, you see that the unfortunate was justified, and we may even say that the unfortunate must have had some knowledge of your chamber and the dimensions of your window. Well, Monsieur de Rochefort, his labour was not all lost, for though neither of us wish to escape, we both wish to talk to the other. We will have much pleasant conversation together, you and I. Up to this, I have had no one to speak to but that fat-head of a Bonvallot, a man absolutely destitute of parts, who does not know the difference, it seems to me, between a tragedy and a comedy, and to whom a strophe of poetry and the creaking of a cart-wheel amount to the same thing.” “I assure you, Monsieur Ferminard, the good Bonvallot and I are much in the same case. I know nothing about poetry, and I cannot tell a stage-play from a washing-bill. So in whatever conversations we have together, let us talk of anything but the theatre.”