"To the health of the commander-in-chief and of Saint-Jean-d'Acre," said she.
Roland raised his glass toward Bonaparte and drank. Then he offered her a piece of money.
"Pooh!" said she, "I sell my liquor to those who need to buy courage, but not to you. Besides, my husband will make a good thing out of this."
"What is your husband doing?"
"He is the bullet merchant."
"Well, to judge by the cannonading, he is liable to make a fortune in a short time. Where is this husband of yours?"
"There he is," she said, pointing out to Roland the sergeant-major who had suggested that he be allowed to sell bullets to Bonaparte. As the Goddess of Reason was pointing, a shell buried itself in the sand not four feet from the speculator.
The sergeant-major, who seemed to be familiar with all sorts of projectiles, threw himself face downward in the sand and waited. The shell burst in about three minutes, scattering a cloud of sand.
"Upon my word, Goddess of Reason," said Roland, "I am afraid that shell has made you a widow."
But the sergeant-major rose unhurt from the midst of the dust and sand. He seemed to be rising from the crater of a volcano. "Long live the Republic!" he shouted as he shook himself.