He then boasted of his natural gifts, and lamented that his parents had not contrived to give him any instruction. Then he set himself to the task of signing our declaration. Despite his good will this was a long process. Whilst, with hands accustomed to the grindstone, he painfully manipulated the pen, Bistac the cleaner came into the room. Bistac had not the genial nature of the grinder. His soul was all Jacobin. At sight of us his forehead puckered and his nostrils swelled: he scented the aristocrat. “Who are you?” he demanded of me. “Pierre Aubier.” “Oh, oh! Pierre Aubier, and I suppose you flatter yourself that you will sleep in your own bed to-night?” I put a cool face on the situation, but my companion began to shudder in every limb. His bones rattled so loudly that Bistac’s attention was attracted, and, forgetting me, he turned his scrutiny on to poor Larisse. “You have all the marks of a conspirator, in my opinion,” said Bistac in a terrible voice. “What is your profession?” “A barber, at your service, citizen.” “All barbers are Feuillants!” Terror commonly inspired Monsieur Larisse to the most courageous actions. He has since confessed to me that at this moment he had all the difficulty in the world to prevent himself from shouting “Long live the King!” As a matter of fact, he did no such thing, but replied proudly that he owed small thanks to the Revolution, which had suppressed wigs and powder, and that he was tired of living in a continual state of apprehension. “Take off my head,” he added. “I should prefer to get my dying over, rather than to live in constant fear.” Bistac became perplexed at talk like this. Meanwhile, the knife-grinder, who was revolving many confused but kindly thoughts in his brain, recommended us to withdraw. “Off with you, citizens,” he said; “but bear in mind that the Republic has need of this.” And he pointed to his forehead. Madame Berthemet’s brother was released next day. The mother of Amélie expressed abundance of gratitude and embraced me—it was a way she had. She did better. “You have,” said she, “acquired a right to the gratitude of Amélie. I am desirous that my daughter should herself come and express her indebtedness to you. She owes you an uncle. It is less than a mother, it is true; but what commendations does not your courage deserve....” She went in search of Amélie. Left alone in the drawing-room, I waited. I asked myself whether I had the strength to see her once more. I feared, I hoped. I died a thousand deaths. In about five minutes Madame Berthemet reappeared, alone. “You must excuse an ungrateful girl,” she said. “My daughter refuses to come. ‘I could not endure his presence,’ she declared. 'The sight of him would be torture to me; henceforth I hate him. By showing greater courage than the man I love, he has gained a cruel advantage. I will never see him again while I live. He is generous: he will forgive me.'”