"What the deuse am I to do, then?"
"Do what you like: but rid me of your three thousand tatterdemalions who are cracking the flagstones with thumps of their halberds, and smoking. In the vaults are seven or eight thousand pounds of gunpowder and a spark may send us all flying to the Eternal Throne."
"In that case, turning this over in my mind," said the farmer, "I will not trouble the King or the Assembly, but call in the nation and take the Bastile myself."
"With what?"
"With the powder you have kindly told me is stored in your cellar."
"You don't tell me that?" sneered Flesselles.
"That is the very thing. The cellar keys, my lord."
"Hello, you are joking," faltered the gentleman.
"I never joke," returned Billet, grasping the provost by the collar with both hands. "Let me have the keys or I shall sling you out to my tatterdemalions who know how to pick pockets."
Flesselles turned pale as death. His lips and teeth closed so convulsively but his voice did not alter in tone from the ironical one adopted.