“Enough!” cried De M—, taking a brace of duelling pistols from the mantelshelf and placing them crosswise on the table, one on top of the other. “There, gentlemen! There’s the true Christian symbol, and over it let us make oath, that in this day’s work we live or die together?”
“We swear it on the Cross!”
“On the Cross, and by the Virgin!”
“On the Cross, and by the Virgin!”
The oath had scarce died on their lips when the door was once more opened, introducing one of those uniformed couriers who were constantly coming and going.
They were all officers of high rank, and all men with fearless but sinister faces.
“Well, Colonel Gardotte!” asked De M—, without waiting for the President to speak; “how are things going on in the Boulevard de Bastille?”
“Charmingly,” replied the Colonel. “Another round of champagne, and my fellows will be in the right spirit—ready for anything!”
“Give it them! Twice if it be needed. Here’s the equivalent for the keepers of the cabarets. If there’s not enough, take their trash on a promise to pay. Say that it’s on account of—Ha! Lorrillard!”
Colonel Gardotte, in brilliant Zouave uniform, was forgotten, or at all events set aside, for a big, bearded man in dirty blouse, at that moment admitted into the room.