"Sit down for one moment then, while I take a few last stitches in my work here. I had expected to wear a new costume in the piece to-night, 'Le Mariage de Figaro,' but the tailor brought a garment that fitted abominably, and to the insult of a grotesque fit he added the injury of an exorbitant bill, so I refused the coat and dismissed him with an admonition."
"I must have encountered your tailor as I came up," said Tournay. "He was very pressed for time, and seemed to have taken your admonition much to heart."
"Not exactly to heart," replied Gaillard, his mouth widening with a grin, "for I emphasized my remarks rather forcibly with my shoe. I kicked him down one flight of stairs, and he ran down the others."
"I am afraid your dramatic nature causes you to be rather precipitate at times, Gaillard," remarked Colonel Tournay, smiling.
"On this occasion all the precipitation was on the part of the tailor," replied Gaillard. "Well, this old costume is mended; it will have to serve me for a few nights. Now for dinner. Take your place at the table. I shall sit at the head, and you, as the guest, shall occupy the place at my right hand. You will excuse me for one moment, will you not, while I serve the repast?" and before Tournay could answer Gaillard had left the room.
Tournay seated himself at the table, and took from his pocket the letter which had been placed in his hands on the street. It was addressed in a large hand to "Citizen Colonel Robert Tournay." The writing was that of a person who evidently wielded the pen but occasionally, and he could not be sure whether it came from a man or woman. He broke the seal and read:—
Citizen Colonel,—Your attitude toward some of the members of the Convention has made you a number of enemies. Do not take the dismissal of the charges brought against you before the committee as an evidence that these enemies are defeated; they have merely resolved to change their tactics during your present popularity. Had you been defeated at Wissembourg and Landau, you would not now be at liberty. You may be sure these men have your ultimate downfall in view. Distrust them all.
Tournay ran his eyes hastily over a list of a dozen names, among which were Couthon, St. Just, and Collot-d'Herbois.
"Here it is, hot and succulent from the kitchen of Citizeness Ribot," called out Gaillard, appearing from an inner room with a steaming dish, which he placed before him. "What have you got there?" he asked, blowing on his fingers to cool them.
Tournay handed him the paper. "All of them either friends or tools of Robespierre," was Gaillard's comment. "How did this come into your hands?"