"Just so; how long shall I wait?"
"An hour."
"What about the casket?" inquired the youth.
"If I do not come out, if Gonchon does not take the Bastile, or if, having taken it, I am not to be found—tell Dr. Gilbert, who may be found—that men from Paris stole the box he entrusted to me five years ago; that on arriving in town I learnt he was put in the Bastile whence I strove to rescue him but left my skin, which was entirely at his service."
"Very good, Father Billet," said the peasant; "it is rather long and I am afraid of forgetting it."
"I will repeat it."
"Better write it," said a voice hard by.
"I cannot write," rejoined Billet.
"I can, for I am clerk to the Chatelet Prison. My name is Maillard, Stanislaus Maillard."
He was a man of forty-five, tall and slim, grave, and clad in black as became such a functionary; he drew a writing-case from his pocket containing writing materials.