ll
enough what goes on at the Scelerat--you understand me well. If a priest
has really made his escape from the prison, you are not clean-handed
enough to meet the accusation; see to it then, Boivin, that I may be
free at once."

"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."

"_Scelerat infame_!" 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 jailors, 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, gayly; "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 'Pere' nor 'Frere'--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 jailor,
half soliloquizing; and the words fell upon my heart with a strange
significance.

"Your blessing, Boivin," said I, "and we part."

"_Te te--_"

"No, no; don't curse the boy," interposed the jailor, good humoredly.

"Then, move off, youngster; I've lost too much time with you already."

The next moment I was in the "Plac