"Madman," said the principal, grasping his hands; "how will you get at a prisoner of state?"
"By taking the Bastile," replied the farmer.
Some guardsmen laughed and the merriment became general.
"Hold on," said Billet, casting his blazing glance around him. "What is this Bogey's Castle, anyhow?"
"Only stones," said a soldier.
"And iron," said another.
"And fire," concluded a third. "Mind you do not burn your fingers, my hero."
"Yes, he'll get burnt," cried the crowd.
"What," roared the peasant, "have you got no pickaxes, you Parisians, that you are afraid of stone walls? no bullets for you to shrink from steel? no powder when they fire on you? You must be cowards, then, dastards; machines fit for slavery. A thousand demons! Is there no man with a heart who will come with me and Pitou to have a go at this Bastile of the King? I am Billet, farmer in the Ile-de-France section, and I am going to knock at that door. Come on!"
Billet had risen to the summit of sublime audacity. The enflamed and quivering multitude around him shouted: