when the Convention sits, you shall deliver your letter; till then,
peace and sound repose." And he bowed himself out.

I knew not much of the world, but I knew enough to wish myself out of
this rat-trap. To try to escape just now would, I saw, be futile. Yet
to spend the night there meant, if not murder, at least robbery and
pestilence. A brave face was the only thing to put upon the business,
and I followed Citizen Picquot downstairs and called for food and drink,
in which I invited not him only but his gossips to join me.

I noticed that the door was carefully locked when any one came in or
went out, and that any chance motion of mine in that direction was
quickly intercepted. So the evening wore on, and presently the lights
of the cabaret were extinguished, and my host passed me my candle and
again bade me good-night.

I went up by no means gaily. Three other men, I observed, were still in
the house, and would in all probability join in the attack upon me. I
had parted with my pistol. The door was without a lock. The window was
shuttered from the outside. My only arms were a small pocket-knife and
my belt.

I took the precaution to secrete my letter to the deputy, along with
that to Mr Lestrange, in my boot, and the little money I had left I
tied up in the tail of my shirt. Then I considered that the only safe
place for me that night was to sit on the floor with my back against the
door and my heels against the foot of the bed, which chanced to stand at
just the required length. In this posture, even if I fell asleep, any
attempt to force the door would arouse me; and if the door was
reasonably sound I could reckon, with my back and feet, on keeping it
fast against the four, at any rate for a while.

I had a long time to wait. They evidently meant to give me time to fall
asleep, and themselves, perhaps, time to consume some more of the cognac
which my money had provided. I was indeed almost dozing when my ears
caught the sound of an unsteady footstep on the stairs and a whispering
of voices below. Then the footstep stopped outside my door, and a hand
cautiously turned the handle.

"The young dog smells a rat," muttered my landlord, with a hickup which
gave me some hope.

"True for you, monsieur," replied I, in as good French as I could
muster. "I can shoot rats as well as smell them." And I made the blade
of my knife give a click that sounded for all the world like the cocking
of a pistol.