"I came to see and to save you, Père," said I. "Nay, do not try to discourage me, but rather give me all your aid. I saw her—I was with her in her last moments at the guillotine; she gave me a message for you, but this you shall never hear till we are without these walls."
"It can not be, it can not be," said he, sorrowfully.
"It can, and shall be," said I, resolutely. "I have merely assumed this dress for the occasion; I have friends, powerful and willing to protect me. Let us change robes; give me that 'soutane,' and put on the blouse. When you leave this, hasten to the old garden of the chapel, and wait for my coming; I will join you there before night."
"It can not be," replied he, again.
"Again I say, it shall, and must be. Nay, if you still refuse, there shall be two victims, for I will tear off the dress here where I stand, and openly declare myself the son of the royalist Tiernay."
Already the commotion in the court beneath was beginning to subside, and even now the turnkeys' voices were heard in the refectory, recalling the prisoners to table, another moment and it would have been too late; it was, then, less by persuasion than by actual force I compelled him to yield, and pulling off his black serge gown, drew over his shoulders my yellow blouse, and placed upon his head the white cap of the "Marmiton." The look of shame and sorrow of the poor curé would have betrayed him at once, if any had given themselves the trouble to look at him.
"And thou, my poor child," said he, as he saw me array myself in his priestly dress, "what is to be thy fate."
"All will depend upon you, Père Michel," said I, holding him by the arm, and trying to fix his wandering attention. "Once out of the prison, write to Boivin, the restaurateur of the 'Scélérat,' and tell him that an escaped convict has scruples for the danger into which he has brought a poor boy, one of his 'Marmitons,' and whom, by a noxious drug, he has lulled into insensibility, while having exchanged clothes, he has managed his escape. Boivin will comprehend the danger he himself runs by leaving me here. All will go well—and now there's not a moment to lose. Take up your basket, and follow the others."
"But the falsehood of all this," cried the Père.
"But, your life and mine, too, lost, if you refuse," said I, pushing him away.