He bowed clumsily. His neck was choked with a great cravat; a huge sabre clanked on the floor beside him as he moved. He was a very ugly piece of goods, and he bore his humiliation with secret fury, I could perceive--the more so as the _aubergiste_ brought in the first of the dishes during the height of the dispute. Crépin permitted himself to be something mollified by the sight of supper. He complimented the girl on her promptitude. The poor creature may have been no heroine, but she was a seductive cook. We had _potage_, most excellent, an _entrée_ of chestnut-meal _ramequins_, roasted kid stuffed with _truffes de Périgord_ and served with sweet wine-sauce. Also a magnificent brand of Bergerac was in evidence. Under the influence of these generous things our table-fellow’s insolence a little revived; but now he would rally me as the safer butt. “The citizen is dainty with his food.” (The fellow himself had lapped and sucked like a pig.) “I owe it to the cook,” said I, serenely. “A debt of love. Thou shalt pay it her presently when the lights are out.” “You are an ill-conditioned hog,” said I. He sprang, toppling, to his feet. “Mother of God!” he stuttered, hoarsely; “this goes too far, this----” He caught Crépin’s eye and subsided again, muttering. We were all pretty warm with liquor; but my superior officer was grown benignant under its influence. “For shame, citizens!” he said, blandly, “to put a coarse accent to this heavenly bouquet.” He had bettered me in the philosophy of the palate. I confess it at once. The other (his name, we came to know, was Lacombe--a name of infamous notoriety in the Bordeaux business) leaned over to me presently--when Crépin was gone from the room a moment to give a direction--with hell glinting out of his eyes. “_M. le Représentant’s_ fellow,” said he; “I bow to authority, but I kick authority’s dog in the ribs if the cur molests me.” “I don’t doubt it. It is probably the measure of your courage.” He nodded pregnantly. “The resurrection of France shall be in discretion. That is the real courage to those whose overbearing impulse is to strike. We are discreet, and we watch, and we evolve by degrees the whole alphabet of espionage. Let us call A the language of the hands. These the frost of poverty will stunt, the rack of labour will warp and disjoint. There is your sign of a citizen of the people. Monsieur has very pretty fingers and pink nails.” “By the same token a corded fist should prove one to be a hangman. Monsieur has a knot for every knuckle.” He nodded again. His calmness was more deadly than his wrath. “You spit your insults over the shoulder of your master. You think yourself secure in your office. But there is an order of repartee unknown to patriots, for it was hatched in the hotbeds of Versailles.” He fell back in his chair--still eyeing me--with a grunt; then suddenly leaned forward again.