“He is clearly of the people, this citizen, since he has been able to be so lavish with his omelettes!” He rose and crossed over to where the Marquis sat. “So you want a dozen eggs for your breakfast, eh?” he said. Condorcet looked at him and hated him; he was furious with himself for the slip that had brought this attention on himself, but he answered calmly. “I have seen omelettes made with as many, I thought, citizen.” The other eyed him closely. “You are a servant looking for a place?” “Yes, citizen.” His questioner stood over him in the attitude, of a judge and thrust his thumbs into his tricolour sash; he was noticing the make and look of this haggard, ragged figure, the shape of his hands, the pose of the head, the steady gaze of the eyes unknown in one born in servitude. “Where have you come from?” “Paris.” “You are very tattered, citizen, to have come such a short way.” Condorcet moved his arms on the table, and put up the right hand to rest his chin in; this attitude, so unconscious, so easy, so coolly reflective and authoritative betrayed him utterly; the fact that he had not risen when spoken to had in itself been almost sufficient to confirm the official’s suspicion. “I have been out of a place,” said the Marquis, “some time. I have hopes of another at Bourg-la-Reine.” The other laughed. “You are a ‘suspect,’” he said. “And you lie very badly.” Condorcet’s eyes flashed hell-fire for an instant: thereby he further betrayed himself. “Who do you think I am?” he asked. “An aristocrat.” “You flatter me, citizen.” Condorcet’s face was dark and violent; he could not keep his tone humble; he could not forget that this man might have been his servant a few years ago–a creature who would never have presumed to address him; all the lessons of the Revolution had not killed his heritage of aristocratic pride. “Stand up,” said the man from Bourg-la-Reine. The Marquis kept his seat. “I stand up when I rise to leave the inn, citizen,” he answered. The other man was standing watchfully by the door; the woman had summoned others; they might be seen in the passage, a rough hovering group. Condorcet knew that he was trapped; his nostrils dilated and his thin lips compressed; he eyed his enemy steadily. “Now I will go on my way,” he said, and rose–a gaunt, ragged figure against the background of sunny chestnut leaves tapping at the thick glass window-panes. He came round the table and he walked easily despite his bleeding feet and the rough boots that galled them. The heavy person of the official barred his way. “Will you not wait for your dozen eggs?” he sneered and put out a thick hand to seize the Marquis’ shoulder, but Condorcet moved swiftly aside. “Your insolence—” he breathed. “You have no right to detain me.”