"Thank you."

The butcher here rose and ostentatiously dragged out a watch from the
depths of his blouse.

"I must go," he said. "I have committee at seven o'clock. And I shall
dine first."

"Yes," said Morot gravely. "Dine first. Take good care of yourself,
citizen."

"Trust me."

"I do," was the reply, delivered with a little nod in answer to Lerac's
curt farewell bow.

The butcher walked noisily through the shop--heavy with
responsibility--weighted with the sense of his own importance to the
world in general and to France in particular. Had he walked less noisily
he might have overheard the soft laugh of the old priest.

Citizen Morot did not laugh. He was not a laughing man. But a fine,
disdainful smile passed over his face, scarce lighting it up at all.

"What an utter fool the man is!" he said impatiently.

"Yes--sir," replied the old man, "but if he were less so it would be
difficult to manage him."