"Gladly, citoyens."
They took possession of a corner in the café, calling the other occupants—two coal-carriers and a seller of lemonade.
While the soup was devoured one or another would turn to Barabant with a wink or a laugh, crying:
"It was glorious, eh, the taking of the Tuileries?"
"We fought well—the Sans-Culottes."
"The fat Louis was trembling that day!"
As they fell to eating their long loaves of bread, spread with cheese and washed down with an execrable mixture of wine and water, groups of two or three sauntered in, to smoke and discuss, among whom Barabant recognized the Marseillais who had borne him in the square. Javogues, greeted uproariously, in turn perceived Barabant.
"Why, it is my little orator!" he cried, and was advancing with open arms to infold him in a bear-like hug, when his eyes encountered the sling. "Mordieu," he exclaimed, "you were wounded!"
"Slightly."
Contenting himself with a wring of the hand, Javogues settled his body into a seat opposite, exclaiming: "There is a patriot, citoyens; I'll vouch for him!"