The dealer half drew his dagger.

“Yes, yes, I see your dagger,” said Samuel; “but I also see the figure in that balcony, watching you.”

The dealer, white with terror, looked up, and saw a man who had witnessed the whole scene.  “Oh!” said he, affecting to laugh; “you get all you want out of me:  here is another crown.  And may the devil take you,” he added to himself.

“Thanks, my good friend,” said Samuel, and he made off.

The dealer began to take up his wares and was also going, when the bourgeois opposite cried out: 

“It seems, monsieur, that you buy armor.”

“No, monsieur,” replied the unlucky dealer; “this was a mere chance.”

“A chance that suits me.”

“In what respect, monsieur?”

“I have a heap of old things that I want to get rid of.”

“I have as much as I can carry.”

“But let me show them to you.”

“It is useless; I have no more money.”

“Never mind, I will give you credit; you look like an honest man.”

“Thank you; but I cannot wait.”

“It is odd how I seem to know you.”

“Know me!” cried the dealer, trembling.

“Look at this helmet,” said the bourgeois, showing it from the window.

“You say you know me?” asked the dealer.

“I thought so.  Are you not—­” he seemed seeking for the name.  “Are you not Nicholas—­”

The dealer looked frightened.

“Nicholas Trouchon, ironmonger, Rue de la Cossonnerie?”

“No, no!” cried the man, breathing more freely again.

“Never mind; will you buy all my armor, cuirass, sword, and all?”

“It is a forbidden commerce.”

“I know that; he whom you dealt with just now called it out loud enough.”

“You heard!”

“Yes, all; and you were liberal.  But be easy, I will not be hard upon you; I have been a trader myself.”

“What did you sell?”

“Never mind; I have made my fortune.”—­“I congratulate you.”

“Well, will you buy all my armor?”

“No, I only want the cuirass.”

“Do you only buy cuirasses?”

“Yes.”

“That is odd, for if you buy and sell by weight, one sort of iron is as good as another.”

“That is true, but I have preferences.”

“Well, then, buy only the cuirass, or rather—­now I think again—­buy nothing at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that in these times every one wants his arms.”

“What! in perfect peace?”

“My good friend, if we were in perfect peace, you would not buy so many cuirasses, and so secretly, too.  But really, the longer I look at you, the more I think I know your face.  You are not Nicholas Trouchon, but still I know you.”

“Silence!”

“And if you buy cuirasses—­”

“Well!”

“I am sure it is for a work agreeable to God.”