to it with a wink.  Then he affected a mysterious reticence, indulged in vague hints and insinuations—­played, in short, the part of a man who revelled in feigning fear.  The possession of this revolver gave him immense importance, placed him definitely amongst the dangerous characters of Paris.  Sometimes, when he was safe inside his stall, he would consent to take it out of his pocket, and exhibit it to two or three of the women.  He made them stand before him so as to conceal him with their petticoats, and then he brandished the weapon, cocked the lock, caused the breech to revolve, and took aim at one of the geese or turkeys that were hanging in the stall.  He was immensely delighted at the alarm manifested by the women; but eventually reassured them by stating that the revolver was not loaded.  However, he carried a supply of cartridges about with him, in a case which he opened with the most elaborate precautions.  When he had allowed his friends to feel the weight of the cartridges, he would again place both weapon and ammunition in his pockets.  And afterwards, crossing his arms over his breast, he would chatter away jubilantly for hours.

“A man’s a man when he’s got a weapon like that,” he would say with a swaggering air.  “I don’t care a fig now for the gendarmes.  A friend and I went to try it last Sunday on the plain of Saint Denis.  Of course, you know, a man doesn’t tell everyone that he’s got a plaything of that sort.  But, ah! my dears, we fired at a tree, and hit it every time.  Ah, you’ll see, you’ll see.  You’ll hear of Anatole one of these days, I can tell you.”

He had bestowed the name of Anatole upon the revolver; and he carried things so far that in a week’s time both weapon and cartridges were known to all the women in the pavilion.  His friendship for Florent seemed to them suspicious; he was too sleek and rich to be visited with the hatred that was manifested towards the inspector; still, he lost the esteem of the shrewder heads amongst his acquaintances, and succeeded in terrifying the timid ones.  This delighted him immensely.

“It is very imprudent for a man to carry firearms about with him,” said Mademoiselle Saget.  “Monsieur Gavard’s revolver will end by playing him a nasty trick.”

Gavard now showed the most jubilant bearing at Monsieur Lebigre’s.  Florent, since ceasing to take his meals with the Quenus, had come almost to live in the little “cabinet.”  He breakfasted, dined, and constantly shut himself up there.  In fact he had converted the place almost into a sort of private room of his own, where he left his old coats and books and papers lying about.  Monsieur Lebigre had offered no objection to these proceedings; indeed, he had even removed one of the tables to make room for a cushioned bench, on which Florent could have slept had he felt so inclined.  When the inspector manifested any scruples about taking advantage of Monsieur Lebigre’s kindness, the latter told