He tells me, almost in shouts and signs, because of the wind across the
open, that his worship dates from a function at which Paul Déroulède
had spoken to him. "He spoke to everybody, an' then he spoke to me, as
close to me as you and me; but it was _him_! I wanted an idea, and he
gave it to me!"

"Very good," I say to him; "very good. You are a patriot, that's
excellent."

I feel that the greatness of this creed surpasses the selfish demands
of labor--although I have never had the time to think much about these
things--and it strikes me as touching and noble.

A last fiery spasm gets hold of Pétrolus as he espies afar Eudo's
pointed house, and he cries that on the great day of revenge there will
be some accounts to settle; and then the fervor of this ideal-bearer
cools and fades, and is spent along the length of the roads. He is now
no more than a poor black bantam which cannot possibly take wing. His
face mournfully awakes to the evening. He shuffles along, bows his
long and feeble spine, and his spirit and his strength exhausted, he
approaches the porch of his house, where Madame Marcassin awaits him.




CHAPTER VII

A SUMMARY