"Nothing new there," Cramoisin interjected querulously. "We have the Fraternal dinners, haven't we?" "That amounts to nothing," Boudgoust retorted. He leaned his elbows on the table, scratching the back of his hands as he talked: "But every day, every meal. That's democracy! Or, better, no citoyen to eat more than another! If I saw any one eating meat to-night I'd arrest him. All citoyens should share alike." Jambony, having now emptied his bowl, declared in his stentor's voice: "And I am for equality of dress. No distinction between citoyens on account of dress! A national costume--one for the men and one for the women!" Presently, while he launched into the details of his scheme, a raven, with a croak and a flap of its wings, hopped from the gloom of the opposite entrance, followed by the diminutive figure of la Mère Corniche, who, giving a nod of understanding to the four, installed herself on a stool and began to knit. "There's one who's no Girondin," Boudgoust grunted. "She's a tiger since the death of Marat," Jambony remarked in a thundering whisper. "She was very devoted. They say--" And he proceeded to detail one of those fantastic tales which the Parisian playfully attributed to any woman, were she eighty or eighteen. Cramoisin, having caressed the last drop in his bowl, now exclaimed: "Jambony, you are tiresome, you and your national costume. You go half-way. What we must restore is the primeval innocence!" As he spoke he pressed a flat thumb on the table, while from under his eyebrows shot the shrewd dagger glances of the madman. "The primeval innocence--there only is the truth! Nothing but that can restore republican simplicity. No clothes at all! A return to the simplicity of Adam and Eve--the true, the real republicans! There's something that would be sublime!" "Allons, Cramoisin, you have too much vanity!" Boudgoust replied. "Yes, he wants to display his beauty," put in Jambony, who retained the spirit of raillery gathered at the doors of the theater. "We know that trick, old fellow." Cramoisin was beginning a furious answer when Javogues, turning impatiently, demanded the hour. "Close to seven." "They come later every night," Javogues grumbled. He rang the table with his fist. "Perhaps they think they can hide their guilty faces in the dusk!" Presently, from the entrances, people with baskets began to appear, directing their way toward the Bakery Gobin, a rod below, to take up the vigil that consumed the night. Those who passed the Prêtre Pendu waited anxiously their welcome from the mouth of Javogues, whose salutations varied according to his estimate of their patriotism. "Greetings, patriots." "Greetings, citoyens." "Greetings." To some he simply nodded in return. Occasionally he stiffened and, without recognition, fastened his scrutiny on the eyes of a new arrival, as though to tear away the mask and wrench forth the secret.