Cabochon had no scruples. He groped with his fingers.
“It is not here,” he said after a time, eyeing me and very malignant.
“Well,” said the other, “who is this fellow?”
“Mordi, Citizen President; he is a forgotten jackass that eats his head off in the revolutionary stable.”
“Vraiment? Then, it follows, his head must fall into the revolutionary manger.”
He nodded pleasantly twice or thrice; then turned and, beckoning Cabochon to walk by him, strode away.
I sat in particular cogitation against the wall. For the present, it seemed, I enjoyed a distinction that was not attractive to my fellow-prisoners; and I was left religiously to myself.
“Now,” said I aloud, “I have grown such a beard that at last the national barber must take me in hand.”
“M. Jean-Louis,” said a voice the other side of the trap, “will you keep me kneeling here for ever?”
I started and flung myself face downwards with a cry of joy. My heart swelled in a moment so that it drove the tears up to my eyes.