"He is some colonel who wants his arrears of pay," said the head
clerk.

"No, he is a retired concierge," said Godeschal.

"I bet you he is a nobleman," cried Boucard.

"I bet you he has been a porter," retorted Godeschal. "Only porters
are gifted by nature with shabby box-coats, as worn and greasy and
frayed as that old body's. And did you see his trodden-down boots that
let the water in, and his stock which serves for a shirt? He has slept
in a dry arch."

"He may be of noble birth, and yet have pulled the doorlatch," cried
Desroches. "It has been known!"

"No," Boucard insisted, in the midst of laughter, "I maintain that he
was a brewer in 1789, and a colonel in the time of the Republic."

"I bet theatre tickets round that he never was a soldier," said
Godeschal.

"Done with you," answered Boucard.

"Monsieur! Monsieur!" shouted the little messenger, opening the
window.

"What are you at now, Simonnin?" asked Boucard.