This last assertion might be true, although it was easy to tell that his glance was more often bent on the side towards Paris than Versailles, which led one to surmise that he did not feel obliged to tell Boniface exactly what his intentions were. In a few seconds his attraction seemed gratified, for he spied a man, garbed much like himself, and appearing of the same trade, outlined on the ridge of the road. He walked heavily like one who had journeyed from afar. His age appeared to be like his awaiter’s, that is, what is called the wrong side of forty. His features were those of a common fellow with low inclinations and vulgar instincts. The stranger’s eye was fastened on him with an odd expression as if he wished with a single scrutiny to measure the gold, if any, and the alloy in his composition. When the wayfarer from the town was within twenty steps of this man lounging in the doorway, the latter stepped inside, poured the wine from the bottle into two glasses and returning to the doorstep with one tumbler held up, he hailed him: “Hello, mate! it is pretty cold weather, and the road is a long one. What do you say to our having a drop of the red to cheer us up and warm us?” The workman from town looked round to make sure that he was alone and that the greeting was addressed to him. “Speaking to me, are you?” “Who else, as you are alone?” “And offering me a go of wine?” “Why not, as we are brothers of the file and bossing-hammer alike? or some at nigh.” “Anybody can belong to a trade,” said the other looking hard at the speaker; “but the point is, are you a greenhand or a master of the craft?” “I reckon we shall tell how far we have learnt the trade while drinking and chatting together.” “All right then!” said the other, walking up to the door, while the inviter showed the table set out with the wine. The man took the tumbler, eyed the contents as if he had doubts, but they disappeared when the stranger poured himself out a second brimmer. “Why, hang it all, are you getting so proud that you will not drink with a shopmate?” “No, dash me if I am--here is Good Luck to the Nation!” The workman’s grey eyes were fixed on the toast-giver’s. He tossed off the glass at a draft, and wiped his lips on his sleeve. “Deuse take it, but it is Burgundy wine,” he remarked. “And good liquor, too, eh? the vintage was recommended to me; and happening along I dropped in, and I am not repenting it. But why not sit down and be at home? there is some more in the bottle and more in the cellar when that is gone.” “I say, what are you working at here?” “I have knocked off for the day. I finished a job at Versailles and I am going on to Paris with the royal procession as soon as it comes along.” “What procession?” “Why, the King and the Queen and the little Prince, who are returning to the city with the Fishmarket women and two hundred Assemblymen, all under protection of Gen. Lafayette and the National Guard.”