"Art a marmiton, thou?" asked an elderly man in a cook's cap, as he stared fixedly at me for some seconds.
"No," said I, helping myself, and eating away as before.
"Thou can'st never be a commissionaire, friend, with an appetite like that," cried another; "I wouldn't trust thee to carry a casserole to the fire."
"Nor shall I be," said I, coolly.
"What trade, then, has the good fortune to possess your shining abilities?"
"A trade that thrives well just now, friend-pass me the flask."
"Indeed, and what may it be?"
"Can you not guess, Citoyen," said I, "if I tell you that it was never more in vogue; and, if there be some who will not follow it, they'll wear their heads just as safely by holding their peace."
"Parbleu! thou hast puzzled me," said the chief cook; "and if thou hast not a coffin-maker—." A roar of merriment cut short his speech, in which I myself could not but join heartily.
"That is, I know," said I, "a thriving business; but mine is even better; and, not to mystify you longer, I'll just tell you what I am—which is, simply, a friend of the Citoyen Robespierre."