‘I have none--he was guillotined.’ ‘His name?’ ‘Tiernay.’ ‘Ah, I remember; he was called _l’Irlandais_.’ ‘The same.’ ‘A famous Royalist was that same Tiernay, and, doubtless, contrived to leave a heritage of his opinions to his son.’ ‘He left me nothing--I have neither house, nor home, nor even bread to eat.’ ‘But you have a head to plan, and a heart to feel, youngster; and it is better that fellows like you should not want a dinner. Boivin, look to it that he is taken care of. In a few days I will relieve you of the charge. You will remain here, boy; there are worse resting-places, I promise you. There are men who call themselves teachers of the people, who would ask no better life than free quarters on Boivin.’ And so saying, he hurriedly withdrew, leaving me face to face with my host. ‘So then, youngster,’ said Boivin, as he scratched his ear thoughtfully, ‘I have gained a pensioner! _Parbleu!_ if life were not an uncertain thing in these times, there’s no saying how long we might not be blessed with your amiable company.’ ‘You shall not be burthened heavily, citizen,’ said I: ‘let me have my dinner--I have not eaten since yesterday morning, and I will go my ways peacefully.’ ‘Which means straight to Robespierre’s dwelling, to tell him that I have turned you out of doors--eh, sirrah?’ ‘You mistake me much,’ said I; ‘this would be sorry gratitude for eaten bread. I meant what I said--that I will not be an unwelcome guest, even though the alternative be, as it is, something very nigh starvation.’ Boivin did not seem clearly to comprehend the meaning of what I said; or perhaps my whole conduct and bearing puzzled him, for he made no reply for several seconds. At last, with a kind of sigh, he said-- ‘Well, well, it cannot be helped; it must be even as he wished, though the odds are, he ‘ll never think more about him. Come, lad, you shall have your dinner.’ I followed him through a narrow, unlighted passage, which opened into a room, where, at a long table, were seated a number of men and boys at dinner. Some were dressed as cooks; others wore a kind of grey blouse, with a badge upon the arm, bearing the name ‘Boivin’ in large letters, and were, as I afterwards learned, the messengers employed to carry refreshments into the prison, and who, by virtue of this sign, were freely admitted within the gates. Taking my place at the board, I proceeded to eat with a voracity that only a long fast could have excused; and thus took but little heed of my companions, whose solecisms in table etiquette might otherwise have amused me. ‘Art a Marmiton, thou?’ asked an elderly man in a cook’s cap, as he stared fixedly at me for some seconds. ‘No,’ said I, helping myself and eating away as before. ‘Thou canst never be a commissionaire, friend, with an appetite like that,’ cried another; ‘I wouldn’t trust thee to carry a casserole to the fire.’ ‘Nor shall I be,’ said I coolly.