“Why, they’re surely fighting together in there,” the customer would say, as he put his glass down on the zinc-covered counter, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Oh, there’s no fear of that,” Monsieur Lebigre tranquilly replied.  “It’s only some gentlemen talking together.”

Monsieur Lebigre, indeed, although very strict with his other customers, allowed the politicians to shout as loudly as they pleased, and never made the least remark on the subject.  He would sit for hours together on the bench behind the counter, with his big head lolling drowsily against the mirror, whilst he watched Rose uncorking the bottles and giving a wipe here and there with her duster.  And in spite of the somniferous effects of the wine fumes and the warm streaming gaslight, he would keep his ears open to the sounds proceeding from the little room.  At times, when the voices grew noisier than usual, he got up from his seat and went to lean against the partition; and occasionally he even pushed the door open, and went inside and sat down there for a few minutes, giving Gavard a friendly slap on the thigh.  And then he would nod approval of everything that was said.  The poultry dealer asserted that although friend Lebigre hadn’t the stuff of an orator in him, they might safely reckon on him when the “shindy” came.

One morning, however, at the markets, when a tremendous row broke out between Rose and one of the fish-wives, through the former accidentally knocking over a basket of herrings, Florent heard Rose’s employer spoken of as a “dirty spy” in the pay of the police.  And after he had succeeded in restoring peace, all sorts of stories about Monsieur Lebigre were poured into his ears.  Yes, the wine seller was in the pay of the police, the fish-wives said; all the neighbourhood knew it.  Before Mademoiselle Saget had begun to deal with him she had once met him entering the Prefecture to make his report.  It was asserted, too, that he was a money-monger, a usurer, and lent petty sums by the day to costermongers, and let out barrows to them, exacting a scandalous rate of interest in return.  Florent was greatly disturbed by all this, and felt it his duty to repeat it that evening to his fellow politicians.  The latter, however, only shrugged their shoulders, and laughed at his uneasiness.

“Poor Florent!” Charvet exclaimed sarcastically; “he imagines the whole police force is on his track, just because he happens to have been sent to Cayenne!”

Gavard gave his word of honour that Lebigre was perfectly staunch and true, while Logre, for his part, manifested extreme irritation.  He fumed and declared that it would be quite impossible for them to get on if everyone was to be accused of being a police spy; for his own part, he would rather stay at home, and have nothing more to do with politics.  Why, hadn’t people even dared to say that he, Logre himself, who had fought in ’48 and ’51, and had twice narrowly escaped transportation, was a spy as well?  As he shouted this out, he thrust his jaws forward, and glared at the others as though he would have liked to ram the conviction that he had nothing to do with the police down their throats.  At the sight of his furious glances his companions made gestures of protestation.  However, Lacaille, on hearing Monsieur Lebigre accused of usury, silently lowered his head.