“Citizen,” I said, shaking my finger at him. “Since when hast thou learned to set thy will in opposition to that of Barrère?”
“Oh, nom de Dieu!” he whimpered, in great distress; and rose and trundled up and down the room. “I oppose nobody. I am a most unhappy being, condemned by vile circumstance to give the perpetual lie to my conscience.”
“It is an ignoble rôle,” said I, “and quite futile of itself.”
He paused suddenly opposite me. His fat lips were shaking; his eyes blinked a nerveless anxiety.
“I contradict nobody,” he cried; and added afflictedly, “I suppose, if you are Riouffe, you are Riouffe, I suppose.”
“It all lies in that,” said I.
“Then,” he cried feebly—“what the devil do you want of me?”
I could have laughed in his poor gross face.
“What, indeed,” said I. “My account with you will come later. You will be prepared then, no doubt, to justify this detention. For me, there remains Barrère.”
“No, no!” he cried; “I desire only to steer wide of quicksands. You may guess, monsieur, how I am governed. This fripon takes my fellows by the ears. He gives you the lie, and you return it in his teeth. What am I to say or think or do?”