“One hundred thousand! that is much, Friard,” replied M. Miton.  “Be sure many people will follow my example, and not go to see this unlucky man quartered, for fear of an uproar.”

“M.  Miton, there will be none, I answer for it.  Do you not think so, monsieur?” continued he, turning to the long-armed man.—­“What?” said the other, as though he had not heard.

“They say there will be nothing on the Place de Greve to-day.”

“I think you are wrong, and that there will be the execution of Salcede.”

“Yes, doubtless:  but I mean that there will be no noise about it.”

“There will be the noise of the blows of the whip, which they will give to the horses.”

“You do not understand:  by noise I mean tumult.  If there were likely to be any, the king would not have had a stand prepared for him and the two queens at the Hotel de Ville.”

“Do kings ever know when a tumult will take place?” replied the other, shrugging his shoulders with an air of pity.

“Oh, oh!” said M. Miton; “this man talks in a singular way.  Do you know who he is, compere?”

“No.”

“Then why do you speak to him?  You are wrong.  I do not think he likes to talk.”

“And yet it seems to me,” replied Friard, loud enough to be heard by the stranger, “that one of the greatest pleasures in life is to exchange thoughts.”

“Yes, with those whom we know well,” answered M. Miton.

“Are not all men brothers, as the priests say?”

“They were primitively; but in times like ours the relationship is singularly loosened.  Talk low, if you must talk, and leave the stranger alone.”

“But I know you so well, I know what you will reply, while the stranger may have something new to tell me.”

“Hush! he is listening.”

“So much the better; perhaps he will answer.  Then you think, monsieur,” continued he, turning again toward him, “that there will be a tumult?”

“I did not say so.”

“No; but I believe you think so.”

“And on what do you found your surmise, M. Friard?”

“Why, he knows me!”

“Have I not named you two or three times?” said Miton.

“Ah! true.  Well, since he knows me, perhaps he will answer.  Now, monsieur, I believe you agree with me, or else would be there, while, on the contrary, you are here.”

“But you, M. Friard, since you think the contrary of what you think I think, why are you not at the Place de Greve?  I thought the spectacle would have been a joyful one to all friends of the king.  Perhaps you will reply that you are not friends of the king; but of mm. de Guise, and that you are waiting here for the Lorraines, who they say are about to enter Paris in order to deliver M. de Salcede.”

“No, monsieur,” replied the little man, visibly frightened at this suggestion; “I wait for my wife, Nicole Friard, who has gone to take twenty-four tablecloths to the priory of the Jacobins, having the honor to be washerwoman to Dom.  Modeste Gorenflot, the abbe.”