"Monsieur," began the waiter, "I will tell you the whole truth. The story is curious, and perhaps everyone would not believe it, but it is well _documentée_. Jean Bouchon was at one time in service here. We had a box. When I say we, I do not mean myself included, for I was not here at the time." "I know about the common box. I know the story down to my visit to Orléans in 1874, when I saw the man." "Monsieur has perhaps been informed that he was buried in the cemetery?" "I do know that, at the cost of his fellow-waiters." "Well, monsieur, he was poor, and his fellow-waiters, though well-disposed, were not rich. So he did not have a grave _en perpétuité_. Accordingly, after many years, when the term of consignment was expired, and it might well be supposed that Jean Bouchon had mouldered away, his grave was cleared out to make room for a fresh occupant. Then a very remarkable discovery was made. It was found that his corroded coffin was crammed--literally stuffed--with five and ten centimes pieces, and with them were also some German coins, no doubt received from those pigs of Prussians during the occupation of Orléans. This discovery was much talked about. Our proprietor of the café and the head waiter went to the mayor and represented to him how matters stood--that all this money had been filched during a series of years since 1869 from the waiters. And our _patron_ represented to him that it should in all propriety and justice be restored to us. The mayor was a man of intelligence and heart, and he quite accepted this view of the matter, and ordered the surrender of the whole coffin-load of coins to us, the waiters of the café." "So you divided it amongst you."