"Out with it. What do you want to say to me?"
The face of Cramoisin artfully showed surprise.
"Come, old fellow, let us understand each other. You hate Barabant, eh?"
"Barabant is a Girondin," Cramoisin ventured, and then, deceived by her mood, he plunged on: "He is a Moderate, a contre-Révolutionnaire. He is against Robespierre and the Jacobins."
"Not a bit," la Mère Corniche interrupted, having now entrapped him. "He is a follower of the great Marat!"
"Who are you telling that to!" Cramoisin cried contemptuously.
"Hark, old fellow, no airs with me," the concierge retorted sharply. "The Citoyen Barabant came here with a letter to Marat. I saw it. As for you, I know what you're after, my fine patriot,—your eyes are on the girl!"
Cramoisin, now thoroughly alarmed, sought only to retreat.
"Never in the world," he cried indignantly. "Come, mother, you mustn't wrong a fellow-patriot. I bear no hatred to Barabant. I thought him a Girondin; he is always with that cursed Goursac. But if you say he's not, I'm glad to hear it."