In the room number one was a prisoner asleep on a folding bed, with his back turned to the light; the remains of his dinner were by him on a worn-out wooden table, and his costume, torn in many places, indicated a man of low station.
"Ouais," said Gaston, "did they think that I was so fond of Bretagne, that any fellows who happened to have been born at Nismes or at Penmarch may be raised to the rank of my Pylades? No, this fellow is too ragged, and seems to eat too much; but as one must not be too capricious in prison, let us make use of the hour—I will recount my adventure to Mademoiselle de Launay, and she will put it into verse for the Chevalier Dumesnil."
Gaston was now alone with the prisoner, who yawned and turned in his bed.
"Ugh! how cold it is in this cursed Bastille," said he, rubbing his nose.
"That voice, that gesture—it is he!" said Gaston, and he approached the bed.
"What," cried the prisoner, sitting up in bed, and looking at Gaston, "you here, M. de Chanlay?"
"Captain la Jonquiere," cried Gaston.
"Myself—that is to say, I am the person you name; but my name is changed."
"To what?"——"First Tresor."
"What?"