"That amounts to nothing," Boudgoust retorted. He leaned his elbows on the table, scratching the back of his hands as he talked: "But every day, every meal. That's democracy! Or, better, no citoyen to eat more than another! If I saw any one eating meat to-night I'd arrest him. All citoyens should share alike."
Jambony, having now emptied his bowl, declared in his stentor's voice:
"And I am for equality of dress. No distinction between citoyens on account of dress! A national costume—one for the men and one for the women!"
Presently, while he launched into the details of his scheme, a raven, with a croak and a flap of its wings, hopped from the gloom of the opposite entrance, followed by the diminutive figure of la Mère Corniche, who, giving a nod of understanding to the four, installed herself on a stool and began to knit.
"There's one who's no Girondin," Boudgoust grunted.
"She's a tiger since the death of Marat," Jambony remarked in a thundering whisper. "She was very devoted. They say—"
And he proceeded to detail one of those fantastic tales which the Parisian playfully attributed to any woman, were she eighty or eighteen.
Cramoisin, having caressed the last drop in his bowl, now exclaimed:
"Jambony, you are tiresome, you and your national costume. You go half-way. What we must restore is the primeval innocence!" As he spoke he pressed a flat thumb on the table, while from under his eyebrows shot the shrewd dagger glances of the madman. "The primeval innocence—there only is the truth! Nothing but that can restore republican simplicity. No clothes at all! A return to the simplicity of Adam and Eve—the true, the real republicans! There's something that would be sublime!"
"Allons, Cramoisin, you have too much vanity!" Boudgoust replied.