So Chauvelin turns on his heel, leaving Barras to fume and to threaten. At the angle of the Porte St. Antoine, he stumbles against and nearly knocks over a man who sits on the ground, with his back to the wall, munching a straw, his knees drawn up to his nose, a crimson cap pulled over his eyes, and his two long arms encircling his shins.
Chauvelin swore impatiently. His nerves were on the rack, and he was in no pleasant mood. The man, taken unawares, had uttered an oath, which died away in a racking fit of coughing. Chauvelin looked down, and saw the one long arm branded with the letter "M," the flesh still swollen and purple with the fire of the searing iron.
"Rateau!" he ejaculated roughly. "What are you doing here?"
Meek and servile, Rateau struggled with some difficulty to his feet.
"I have finished my work at Mother Théot's, citizen," he said humbly. "I was resting."
Chauvelin kicked at him with the toe of his boot.
"Then go and rest elsewhere," he muttered. "The gates of the city are not refuges for vagabonds."
After which act of unnecessary brutality, his temper momentarily soothed, he turned on his heel and walked rapidly through the gate.
Barras had stood by during this brief interlude, vaguely interested in the little scene. But now, when the coalheaver lurched past him, one of his aides-de-camp remarked audibly:
"An unpleasant customer, citizen Chauvelin! Eh, friend?"