“Sang Dieu!” he growled, thickly. “You do well to jest. Give me the paper, or I’ll brain you with my keys!”
I dropped laughing upon the stool, and held the list between and under my knees. With an oath he fell upon me. The company applauded it all with a frenzy of mad mirth and frolic.
The struggle was brief. He rose directly, puffing and cursing, the paper in his hand.
I affected a crestfallen good-humour.
“You might have let us have our game out,” I protested.
With his recovered authority in his hand, the rascal condescended to some facetious tolerance.
“So!” he said; “you play a good part. They should have you for King George in ‘Le Dernier Jugement des Rois.’ But rest content. You shall appear on a notable stage yet, and before an audience more appreciative than that of the Théâtre de la République.”
“And I shall know how to bow my thanks, citizen.”
“Ah!” he crowed. “I love thee! Thou shalt have thy game and sit here; and I will pick from the flock as thou numberest its tale.”
It fell in with the reckless, dreadful humour of the times. I would have withdrawn from the cruel jest, but it was the company of les misérables that prevented me.