Opposite the guard-house I saw the pedler Pinacle afar off, his pack opened on a little table, and beside it a long pole decked with ribbons which he was selling to the conscripts.
I hastened to pass by him, when he cried:
"Ha! Cripple! Halt! Come here; I have a ribbon for you; you must have a magnificent one—one to draw a prize by."
He waved a long black ribbon above his head, and I grew pale despite myself. But as we ascended the steps of the town-house, a conscript was just descending; it was Klipfel, the smith of the French gate; he had drawn number eight, and shouted:
"The black for me, Pinacle! Bring it here, whatever may happen."
His face was gloomy, but he laughed. His little brother Jean was crying behind him, and said:
"No, no, Jacob! not the black!"
But Pinacle fastened the ribbon to the smith's hat, while the latter said:
"That is what we want now. We are all dead, and should wear our own mourning."
And he cried savagely: