"Well! what did I tell you? Was I mistaken? You've seen him yourself. That was Paul, dressed like a swell."
"Yes, it was him, that's sure! I can't get over it!"
"And do you see how proud he is when he's dressed up like that? he passed close to us, and pretended not to know us. What does it all mean? is that a messenger's dress? Anyone would swear he was a drummer. You see yourself that there's something crooked, some mystery."
Sans-Cravate was not listening, for he had run after Paul; although the younger man walked very rapidly, Sans-Cravate soon overtook and passed him; then, planting himself in front of him, he barred his passage, saying in a bantering tone which ill concealed his anger:
"Where are you going so fast? Bigre! seems to me, you're dressed mighty fine for a messenger who stands on the street corner to do errands."
Paul was thunderstruck when he recognized Sans-Cravate; but he strove to overcome his annoyance, and replied:
"I am not doing errands to-day, and when a man isn't working he is free to dress as he pleases."
"That may be! but, still, nobody ever meets us in such a rig, not even on Sunday."
"No," said Jean Ficelle, who had overtaken his two confrères, and joined in the conversation with a bantering leer; "no! we ain't so stylish as that! Gad! what a swell! Paul must have some other trade that pays better than ours, to wear such togs! And think how stingy he is with us, never willing to treat his friends to a glass!"
"I do what I choose! I am not accountable to anyone for my actions," retorted Paul, with an angry glance at Jean Ficelle; "I don't play the spy on other people, and I care mighty little what is thought of me by people who had better learn to behave themselves, first of all!"