"Six feet in places, sire, eight in others," answered the squab man, Tristan, the executioner.
"Good!" said Louis. "But the place looks to me as if it were tumbling."
"It might, no doubt, be in better repair, sire," observed the showy person, Oliver, the barber; "but as it is no longer used——"
"Ah! but suppose I thought of using it, gossip?"
"Then, sire, your Majesty would have it repaired."
"To be sure!" chuckled the King—"If I were to shut you up in there, Oliver, you could get out, eh?"
"I think so, sire."
"But you, gossip," to his hangman, "you'd catch him and have him back to me, hein?"
"Trust me, sire!" said Tristan.
"Then I'll have my dungeon mended," said Louis. "I'm going to have company here, gossips."