"I read an article which is not according to my views. That puts me in a
rage, and I fret my heart out, because you see, Monsieur Rodolphe,
newspapers are all lies. Yes, lies," he screeched in his shrillest
falsetto, "and the journalists are robbers."

"But, Monsieur Mouton--"

"Yes, brigands," continued the clerk. "They are the cause of all our
misfortunes; they brought about the Revolution and its paper money,
witness Murat."

"Excuse me," said Rodolphe, "you mean Marat."

"No, no," resumed Monsieur Mouton, "Murat, for I saw his funeral when I
was quite a child--"

"But I assure you--"

"They even brought you a piece at the Circus about him, so there."

"Exactly," said Rodolphe, "that was Murat."

"Well what else have I been saying for an hour past?" exclaimed the
obstinate Mouton. "Murat, who used to work in a cellar, eh? Well, to put
a case. Were not the Bourbons right to guillotine him, since he had
played the traitor?"

"Guillotine who? Play the traitor to whom?" cried Rodolphe,
button-holing Monsieur Mouton in turn.