"Everything," acquiesced Morot fervently. He was consulting a small
note-book, wherein he jotted down some figures.

"Four hundred and two," he muttered as he wrote, "up to Friday night, in
the _arrondissement_ of the citizen--the good citizen--Antoine
Lerac."

The butcher looked up with a doubtful expression upon his coarse face.
His great brutal lips twitched, and he was on the point of speaking when
the Citizen Morot's velvety eyes met his gaze with a quiet smile in
which arrogance and innocence were mingled.

"And now," said the last-mentioned, turning affably to the old
gentleman, "let us have the report of the reverend Father."

"Ah," laughed Lerac, without attempting to conceal the contempt that was
in his soul, "the Church."

The old gentleman spread out his hands in mild deprecation.

"Yes," he admitted, "we are under a shadow. I do not even dare to wear
my cassock."

"You are in a valley of shadow, my reverend friend," said the butcher,
with visible exultation, "to which the sun will never penetrate now."

The Citizen Morot laughed at this pleasantry, while the old man against
whom it was directed bowed his head patiently.

"And yet," said the laugher, with a certain air of patronage, "the