My mother shrugged her shoulders.
"My dear," she said, "the prisoners were armed also, and you saw them pass through Villers-Cotterets each between two policemen."
I would fain have replied; but my mother's argument was so obviously true that I had not courage to venture on another boast.
Besides, time was flying; it was nearly seven o'clock in the evening, and under the circumstances perhaps I might not be able to get inside the prison if I delayed any longer.
My mother gave a last glance to see that the pistols and the roll were not visible; she fastened round my neck a short cape which I used to wear in wet weather going to college, when the college existed, and we took our way towards the prison.
Although my dear mother tried to hide her emotion, her hand trembled in mine. As for me, I did not even suspect that we ran any danger whatever in doing what we were about to do.
When we reached the prison, my mother knocked at the door, and the wicket was opened.
"Who is there?" asked the voice of the keeper.
"My dear M. Richard," said my mother (as far as I can recollect, Richard was the good man's name),—"my dear M. Richard, here is Alexandre, who has come to play with your son, while I go and pay a call."
"Ah! is that you, Madame Dumas?" said the keeper. "Will you not favour us by coming in for a moment?"