“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.