"Sign it. What is your name?"
"Urbain Fabre," said the prisoner.
Thénardier, with the movement of a cat, thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out the handkerchief found on M. Leblanc. He sought for the mark, and held it to the candle.
"'U. F.,' all right, Urbain Fabre. Well, sign it 'U. F.'"
The prisoner did so.
"As two hands are needed to fold a letter, give it to me and I will do it."
This done, Thénardier added,—
"Write the address, 'Mademoiselle Fabre,' at your house. I know that you live somewhere near here in the neighborhood of St. Jacques du Haut-pas, as you attend Mass there every day, but I do not know in what street. I see that you understand your situation, and as you have not told a falsehood about your name, you will not do so about your address. Write it yourself."
The prisoner remained pensive for a moment, and then took up the pen and wrote,—
"Mademoiselle Fabre, at M. Urbain Fabre's, No. 17, Rue St. Dominique d'Enfer."