type. His mode of entry was of another description. Whereas the man of
blood swaggered in with an air of nervous truculence, as if he were
afraid that some one was desirous of disputing his equality, the next
comer crept in softly, and closed the door with accuracy. He was the
incarnation of benevolence--in the best sense of the word, a sweet old
man--looking out upon the world through large tinted spectacles with a
beam which could not be otherwise than blind to all motes. In earlier
years his face might, perhaps, have been a trifle hard in its contour;
but Time, the lubricator, had eased some of the corners, and it was now
the seat of kindness and love. He bowed ceremoniously to the first
comer, and his manner seemed rather to breathe of fraternity than
equality. As he bowed he mentioned the gentleman's name in such loving
tones that no greeting could have been heartier.

"Citizen Morot," he said.

The butcher, with more haste than dignity, assumed the chair which stood
at the opposite end of the table to that occupied by the Citizen Morot.
He had evidently hurried in first in order to secure that seat. From his
pocket he produced a somewhat soiled paper, which he threw with
exaggerated carelessness across the table. His manner was not entirely
free from a suggestion of patronage.

"What have we here?" inquired the first comer, who had not hitherto
opened his lips, with a deep interest which might possibly have been
ironical. He was just the sort of man to indulge in irony for his own
satisfaction. He unfolded the paper, raised his eyebrows, and read.

"Ah!" he said, "a receipt for five hundred rifles with bayonets and
shoulder-straps complete. 'Received of the Citizen Morot five hundred