“That that is not the name on the passport?”
“I know nothing of the passport. I know that thou art not Riouffe, and it is enough.”
Squint-eyes croaked joyously.
“Come!” he said; “here is a sop to the weather.”
As for me, I could have whipped Gusman for his talk of a fortuitous resemblance.
“I am Riouffe,” said I, stubbornly, “whatever thou mayst think.”
“Well, it is said,” cried the postilion. He chirped shrilly like a ferret. “And, if thou art Riouffe, thou art a damned aristocrat; and how art thou the better for that?”
“Bah!” I exclaimed. “What dost thou know of me, pig of a stable-boy?”
“Of thee, nothing. Of Riouffe, enough to say that thou art not he.”
“Explain, citizen!” growled a curt-spoken patriot, spitting on the ground for full-stop.