“What should a poor fellow know of politics, Messieurs?” he deprecated. “These are odd times. I doubt me the world has never seen their like. No man may safely know his neighbour. Now you, sir,” he pursued, turning to the younger man, “you have the air of a sans-culotte, yet from your speech you seem an honest enough gentleman.”
The fellow laughed with unction.
“The air of a sans-culotte?” he cried. “My faith, yes. So much so, that this morning I imposed myself as a courier from Paris upon no less an astute sleuth-hound of the Convention than the Citizen-deputy La Boulaye.”
“Is it possible?” cried Caron, his eyes opening wide in wonder. “But how, Monsieurs? For surely a courier must bear letters, and—”
“So did I, so did I, my friend,” the other interrupted, with vain glory. “I knocked a patriotic courier over the head to obtain them. He was genuine, that other courier, and I passed myself out of France with his papers.”
“Monsieur is amusing himself at the expense of my credulity,” La Boulaye complained.
“My good man, I am telling you facts,” the other insisted.
“But how could such a thing be accomplished?” asked Caron, seating himself at the table, and resting his chin upon his hand, his gaze so full of admiration as to seem awestruck.
“How? I will tell you. I am from Artois.”
“You'll be repeating that charming story once too often,” Des Cadoux cautioned him.