“_Oh, nom de Dieu!_” he whimpered, in great distress; and rose and trundled up and down the room. “I oppose nobody. I am a most unhappy being, condemned by vile circumstance to give the perpetual lie to my conscience.” “It is an ignoble _rôle_,” said I, “and quite futile of itself.” He paused suddenly opposite me. His fat lips were shaking; his eyes blinked a nerveless anxiety. “I contradict nobody,” he cried; and added afflictedly, “I suppose, if you are Riouffe, you are Riouffe, I suppose.” “It all lies in that,” said I. “Then,” he cried feebly--“what the devil do you want of me?” I could have laughed in his poor gross face. “What, indeed,” said I. “My account with you will come later. You will be prepared then, no doubt, to justify this detention. For me, there remains Barrère.” “No, no!” he cried; “I desire only to steer wide of quicksands. You may guess, monsieur, how I am governed. This _fripon_ takes my fellows by the ears. He gives you the lie, and you return it in his teeth. What am I to say or think or do?” “Is it for me to advise a commissary?” He rumpled his limp hair desperately as he walked. “You will not help me! You drive me to distraction!” He stopped again. “Are you Riouffe?” he cried. “You have my passport, monsieur.” “Yes, yes, I know!” he exclaimed in a frenzy; “but--Mother of God, monsieur! do you not comprehend the post-boy to swear you are not the Englishman’s Riouffe?” “Confront me, then, with the Englishman.” “He cannot be found.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I can only recall monsieur’s attention,” said I, “to the fact that certain citizens, travelling under safe-conduct of a member of the Committee of Safety, and with their papers in indisputable order, are suffering a detention sufficiently unwarrantable to produce the gravest results.” The commissary snatched up his hat and ran to the door. “Go thy ways!” he cried. “Myself, I will conduct you through the village. For the rest, when the Englishman is found, and if he denies thee----” He did not finish the sentence. In a moment we were all in the rainy street. My accuser was vanished from the neighbourhood of the barrier. A single patriot only was in evidence. This man made a feint of bringing his musket to the charge. “_Qui va là?_” he grunted. “_Est-ce qu’il se sauve, ce cochon!_” Fear lent the commissary anger. “To thy post!” he shouted. “Am I to be made answerable to every dog that barks!” Red-bonnet fell back muttering. We hurried forward, splashing over the streaming cobbles. The street, by luck of weather, was entirely deserted. Only a horseless _limonière_, standing at the porch of the village inn, gave earnest of some prospective interest. Suddenly I felt Carinne’s little clutch on my arm. “The Englishman!” she whispered, in a gasp.