"Do you belong to them—the youth of the schools?"
The old man lifted up a hideous countenance in which one could trace, in the midst of a grey beard, a red nose and two dull eyes, bloodshot from drink.
"No, you appear to me rather one of those men with patibulary faces whom we see, in various groups, liberally scattering gold. Oh, scatter it, my patriarch, scatter it! Corrupt me with the treasures of Albion! Are you English? I do not reject the presents of Artaxerxes! Let us have a little chat about the union of customs!"
Frederick felt a hand laid on his shoulder. It was Martinon, looking exceedingly pale.
"Well!" said he with a big sigh, "another riot!"
He was afraid of being compromised, and uttered complaints. Men in blouses especially made him feel uneasy, suggesting a connection with secret societies.
"You mean to say there are secret societies," said the young man with the moustaches. "That is a worn-out dodge of the Government to frighten the middle-class folk!"
Martinon urged him to speak in a lower tone, for fear of the police.
"You believe still in the police, do you? As a matter of fact, how do you know, Monsieur, that I am not myself a police spy?"
And he looked at him in such a way, that Martinon, much discomposed, was, at first, unable to see the joke. The people pushed them on, and they were all three compelled to stand on the little staircase which led, by one of the passages, to the new amphitheatre.