"What would you do?" said the queen, forgetting herself. "Do you not see my son is ill, and suffering from fever? Do you wish to kill him?"
"Your son," said the municipal, "is the cause of constant alarm to the Council of the Temple; he is the point at which all the conspirators aim, and flatter themselves they shall carry you all off together. Well, let them come. Tison—call Tison."
Tison was a species of journeyman, charged with all the heavy household work in the prison. He appeared. He was a man of forty years old, much sunburnt, of a rude and ferocious aspect, with matted black hair overhanging his eyebrows.
"Tison," said Santerre, "who came yesterday to bring the prisoners' food?"
Tison gave the name.
"And their linen, who brought it to them?"
"My daughter."
"Then your daughter is a laundress?"
"Certainly."
"And you gave her the washing of the prisoners?"