No brotherhood had ever been graced by a more brilliant assemblage of handsome and joyous young men. Two or three only of these strange monks had reached the age of forty. All hands were held out to Morgan and several warm kisses were imprinted upon the new-comer’s cheek. “‘Pon my word,” said one who had welcomed him most tenderly, “you have drawn a mighty thorn from my foot; we thought you dead, or, at any rate, a prisoner.” “Dead, I grant you, Amiet; but prisoner, never! citizen--as they still say sometimes, and I hope they’ll not say it much longer. It must be admitted that the whole affair was conducted on both sides with touching amenity. As soon as the conductor saw us he shouted to the postilion to stop; I even believe he added: ‘I know what it is.’ ‘Then,’ said I, ‘if you know what it is, my dear friend, our explanations needn’t be long.’ ‘The government money?’ he asked. ‘Exactly,’ I replied. Then as there was a great commotion inside the carriage, I added: ‘Wait! first come down and assure these gentlemen, and especially the ladies, that we are well-behaved folk and will not harm them--the ladies; you understand--and nobody will even look at them unless they put their heads out of the window.’ One did risk it; my faith! but she was charming. I threw her a kiss, and she gave a little cry and retired into the carriage, for all the world like Galatea, and as there were no willows about, I didn’t pursue her. In the meantime the guard was rummaging in his strong-box in all expedition, and to such good purpose, indeed, that with the government money, in his hurry, he passed over two hundred louis belonging to a poor wine merchant of Bordeaux.” “Ah, the devil!” exclaimed the brother called Amiet--an assumed name, probably, like that of Morgan--“that is annoying! You know the Directory, which is most imaginative, has organized some bands of chauffeurs, who operate in our name, to make people believe that we rob private individuals. In other words, that we are mere thieves.” “Wait an instant,” resumed Morgan; “that is just what makes me late. I heard something similar at Lyons. I was half-way to Valence when I discovered this breach of etiquette. It was not difficult, for, as if the good man had foreseen what happened, he had marked his bag ‘Jean Picot, Wine Merchant at Fronsac, Bordeaux.’” “And you sent his money back to him?” “I did better; I returned it to him.” “At Fronsac?”