[*] The column erected on the Place de la Bastille in memory
     of the Revolution of July 1830, by which Charles X was
     dethroned.—­Translator.

“Why,” said he, “that fellow Florent hasn’t an idea about politics, and would have done far better to seek a berth as writing master in a ladies’ school!  It would be nothing short of a misfortune if he were to succeed, for, with his visionary social sentimentalities, he would crush us down beneath his confounded working men!  It’s all that, you know, which ruins the party.  We don’t need any more tearful sentimentalists, humanitarian poets, people who kiss and slobber over each other for the merest scratch.  But he won’t succeed!  He’ll just get locked up, and that will be the end of it.”

Logre and the wine dealer made no remark, but allowed Charvet to talk on without interruption.

“And he’d have been locked up long ago,” he continued, “if he were anything as dangerous as he fancies he is.  The airs he puts on just because he’s been to Cayenne are quite sickening.  But I’m sure that the police knew of his return the very first day he set foot in Paris, and if they haven’t interfered with him it’s simply because they hold him in contempt.”

At this Logre gave a slight start.

“They’ve been dogging me for the last fifteen years,” resumed the Hebertist, with a touch of pride, “but you don’t hear me proclaiming it from the house-tops.  However, he won’t catch me taking part in his riot.  I’m not going to let myself be nabbed like a mere fool.  I dare say he’s already got half a dozen spies at his heels, who will take him by the scruff of the neck whenever the authorities give the word.”

“Oh, dear, no!  What an idea!” exclaimed Monsieur Lebigre, who usually observed complete silence.  He was rather pale, and looked at Logre, who was gently rubbing his hump against the partition.

“That’s mere imagination,” murmured the hunchback.

“Very well; call it imagination, if you like,” replied the tutor; “but I know how these things are arranged.  At all events, I don’t mean to let the ‘coppers’ nab me this time.  You others, of course, will please yourselves, but if you take my advice—­and you especially, Monsieur Lebigre—­you’ll take care not to let your establishment be compromised, or the authorities will close it.”

At this Logre could not restrain a smile.  On several subsequent occasions Charvet plied him and Lebigre with similar arguments, as though he wished to detach them from Florent’s project by frightening them; and he was much surprised at the calmness and confidence which they both continued to manifest.  For his own part, he still came pretty regularly in the evening with Clemence.  The tall brunette was no longer a clerk at the fish auctions—­Monsieur Manoury had discharged her.

“Those salesmen are all scoundrels!” Logre growled, when he heard of her dismissal.