"But the letter may be lost."
"Well, what then? Thou wilt be safe, and have one less life to answer for to the devil when he gets thee."
"Talk business. There is no devil."
"I don't agree with thee. His name is Robespierre. The mischief is that it is I who do not trust thee. Thou hast a wart, citizen. Men who have warts are unlucky to meet. But take care, because I am a desperate man, and most extremely value my head. If thou shouldst fail to—"
"No, no; I promise."
"Good, then."
"Wait; I will write out the papers."
"I shall not hurry thee. I must pack up. I will be back in half an hour. Be so kind as to arrange that I may return without hindrance."
François went at once to the garden, and called Toto. Then he hastened to his cachot, or cell, and, finding himself alone, shut the door, took the little packet from Toto's mouth, and gave him the promised bone. He placed the paper inside his stocking, and secured it with a pin. Next he gathered up his small effects, left his mangled coat on the bed of a fellow-prisoner, and descended thoughtfully to the office.
He was glad to see that the man of the wart was sitting apparently inattentive to the piles of accounts before him. "Clearly, the citizen is worried," said François to himself.