This individual, unmoved, apparently, by the general ferment, had finished his dinner and sat sipping his Médoc luxuriously. He was a pimple-faced man, well-nourished and sensual-looking, but with an air of tolerant geniality about him. Ugly as Danton, he had yet a single redeeming ornament in the shape of a quantity of rich auburn hair that fell from his head in natural curls. Though his condition was plain to me, and I saw that the restaurateur treated him with obsequious deference, he appeared more self-complacent than self-sufficient, and as if he were rather accustomed to indulge than abuse his position. For I recognised in him the president of some sectional committee, and that by the little plaque, printed small with the Rights of Man, that hung as a pendant from his tricolour neck-ribbon. Of the other at the table I took but little notice, save to remark that he devoured his meal with the air of a man to whom good digestion is no essential condition of politics. Now, of a sudden, Jacques Crépin of the pendant lowered his legs, took up his bottle and glass, and, to my extreme surprise, crossed the room to my table and sat down by me. He did not speak at first, being engaged in watching our neighbours, before whom were placed at the moment the dishes of the uncle’s selection. Mademoiselle Carinne gave a little _Ouf!_ over hers. “But what is this?” she said. “It is a pig’s foot _à la_ St Menehould. Such a dish, _babouine_!” The old rascal had taken advantage of her insensibility to procure her one of the cheapest entries on the list. She pushed it from her with an exclamation of disgust. “Fie, then!” she cried. “The very hoof of a filthy swine! Wouldst thou have me make my hunger a footstool to a pig? Take it away. I will not touch it!” He protested, voluble and shamefaced. She would not listen. Out of mere wilfulness she now selected the most expensive item of the _menu_--a partridge stewed in wine. He seemed like to cry; but she persisted and gained her point. “We shall be ruined!” he cried, inconsistently enough. “For a month after our return we shall have to live on bread and boiled nettles.” “In December, _mon oncle_? Then I am imperious for white wine of Mont Raché.” The old fellow almost shrieked. “Carinne! Eight francs the bottle! Consider, my niece. I shall die in Sainte Pélagie!” The new-comer turned to me with a grin. “Didst ever hear the like?” said he. I nodded gravely. I was not then all inured to impertinence. “He lacks the art of selection,” I said coldly, thinking of Michau. He showed himself good-humouredly conscious of my manner. He leaned towards me and murmured carelessly-- “There, of a truth, speaks Monseigneur le Comte de la Muette.” I reached for my glass and sipped from it; but I have no doubt my hand shook. “The citizen does not recognise me?” “No, by my faith.” “I am Jacques Crépin; and formerly I served where I now dine.”