“Ha! our lost and strayed friend,” said one, as I appeared, “come hither and make a clean breast of it. What amiable weaknesses have introduced you to the Temple?”
“In truth,” said I, endeavoring to conceal my knowledge of my acquaintances' real character, “I cannot even guess, nor do I believe that any one else is wiser than myself.”
“Parbleu!, young gentleman,” said the Abbé, as he spied me impertinently through his glass, “you are excessively old-fashioned for your years. Don't you know that spotless innocence went out with the Bourbons? Every one since that dies in the glorious assertion of his peculiar wickedness, with certain extenuating circumstances which he calls human nature.”
“And now, then,” resumed the first speaker, “for your mishap,—what was it?”
“I should only deceive you were I to give any other answer than my first. Mere suspicion there may be against me; there can be no more.”
“Well, well, let us have the suspicions. The 'Moniteur' is late this morning, and we have nothing to amuse us.”
“Who are you?” cried another, a tall, insolent-looking fellow, with a dark mustache. “That 's the first question. I've seen a mouton in a hussar dress before now.”
“I am too late a resident here,” answered I, “to guess how far insolence goes unpunished; but if I were outside these walls, and you also, I 'd teach you a lesson you have yet to learn, sir.”
“Parbleu!” said one of the former speakers, “Jacques, he has you there, though it was no great sharpness to see you were a blane-bec.”
The tall fellow moved away, muttering to himself, as a hearty laugh broke forth among the rest.