Florent was at last perfectly happy. His feet no longer seemed to tread the ground; he was borne aloft by his burning desire to pass sentence on all the wickedness he had seen committed. He had all the credulity of a little child, all the confidence of a hero. If Logre had told him that the Genius of Liberty perched on the Colonne de Juillet[*] would have come down and set itself at their head, he would hardly have expressed any surprise. In the evenings, at Monsieur Lebigre’s, he showed great enthusiasm and spoke effusively of the approaching battle, as though it were a festival to which all good and honest folks would be invited. But although Gavard in his delight began to play with his revolver, Charvet got more snappish than ever, and sniggered and shrugged his shoulders. His rival’s assumption of the leadership angered him extremely; indeed, quite disgusted him with politics. One evening when, arriving early, he happened to find himself alone with Logre and Lebigre, he frankly unbosomed himself. [*] The column erected on the Place de la Bastille in memory of the Revolution of July 1830, by which Charles X was dethroned.—Translator. “Why,” said he, “that fellow Florent hasn’t an idea about politics, and would have done far better to seek a berth as writing master in a ladies’ school! It would be nothing short of a misfortune if he were to succeed, for, with his visionary social sentimentalities, he would crush us down beneath his confounded working men! It’s all that, you know, which ruins the party. We don’t need any more tearful sentimentalists, humanitarian poets, people who kiss and slobber over each other for the merest scratch. But he won’t succeed! He’ll just get locked up, and that will be the end of it.” Logre and the wine dealer made no remark, but allowed Charvet to talk on without interruption. “And he’d have been locked up long ago,” he continued, “if he were anything as dangerous as he fancies he is. The airs he puts on just because he’s been to Cayenne are quite sickening. But I’m sure that the police knew of his return the very first day he set foot in Paris, and if they haven’t interfered with him it’s simply because they hold him in contempt.” At this Logre gave a slight start. “They’ve been dogging me for the last fifteen years,” resumed the Hébertist, with a touch of pride, “but you don’t hear me proclaiming it from the house-tops. However, he won’t catch me taking part in his riot. I’m not going to let myself be nabbed like a mere fool. I dare say he’s already got half a dozen spies at his heels, who will take him by the scruff of the neck whenever the authorities give the word.” “Oh, dear, no! What an idea!” exclaimed Monsieur Lebigre, who usually observed complete silence. He was rather pale, and looked at Logre, who was gently rubbing his hump against the partition. “That’s mere imagination,” murmured the hunchback.