"Ah, well," laughed François, "there is the guillotine—short and comfortable."
"Thou wilt not denounce me?" he cried, leaping to his feet. "I have my carte; I will let thee see it." He was like a scared child.
"Nonsense!" cried François, with good-humored amusement. "I must go. Here is a gold louis. Why dost thou not rob a few Jacobins?"
"Hush! I dare not; I was brave once. Thou didst save me once; help me now. Thou wilt not let me starve?"
"No, indeed. I? Not I. Take care of thy louis; they are scarce. Meet me here at this hour in a week. Adieu. At this hour, mind."
"Art thou going to leave me alone?"
François was grieved, but could not remain, and hastened away, while Pierre looked after him with melancholy eyes.
"Come, Toto," he said, as he turned a corner. "The man is mad. Let us thank the bon Dieu we never have had a wife; and the rest of our relatives we have buried—papa and mama, and all the family."
It was not in the man to forget, and a week later he cautiously entered the little café to keep his engagement. It was noisy. To his surprise, he saw Pierre declaiming lustily to half a dozen blouses.
"Ah!" he cried, seeing François, "mon ami, here is a seat. There is good news from the frontier. A glass for the citizen." Clink, clink. "À vous*. Death to royal rats!" He went on in a wild way until the workmen had gone, and François stopped him with: