Paul Durand was confined in the prison at Tours. The prison was so crowded that he had to be placed in a small room at the top of the building adjoining the quarters occupied by the jailer and his family.
Paul was paler than usual, the result of fatigue from the long, rapid ride from La Haye, but he showed no signs of fear and held up his head bravely as the jailer entered the room. The latter carried a bundle under his arm.
"You are to take these clothes," he said, "go into the adjoining room, and put them on in place of the garments you have on."
Paul took the bundle and went into the next room. For fifteen minutes the jailer sat upon the one chair the room contained, humming and jingling his bunch of keys. Then the door into the outer corridor was thrown open and a large man entered. The jailer sprang to his feet with alacrity.
"Where's the prisoner, Potin?" demanded the newcomer in a harsh voice.
"In the next room, Citizen Lebœuf," replied Potin.
Leb[oe]uf strode toward the door and laid his hand upon the latch.
"I beg your pardon, Citizen Lebœuf, but the prisoner may not be ready to receive you."
"Well, there's no particular reason to be squeamish, is there?" asked Lebœuf, screwing his fat face into a leer.
"If you will wait another minute I think the prisoner will come out," suggested Potin deferentially, jingling his keys.