his place in the front, when a voice behind him said,
“Bah! that’s child’s play; you cannot care for that, Monsieur Adair. The fools have knives, and don’t use them.”
Adair turned, and saw a coarsely-built man, with something of the foreign sailor about him, and whose long black hair and ear-rings, and the bull-neck below, suddenly recalled a scene of violence, the recollection of which had almost been extinguished by grimmer memories of more recent date.
“But he hits well, the fair-haired fellow,” continued the other. “Only they have drunk too much to be mischievous. We should not drink when we quarrel, unless we mean to use cold steel, Monsieur Adair, should we?”
“You in England, Haureau?” said Adair.
“Why not. England is as open to me as to you, I suppose?”
“I don’t know,” said Adair, contemptuously, and affecting to watch the combat even more eagerly than before.
But it was soon over. Cynthia, who had needed a few moments to make adequate reply to the fierce reproaches of her female friends, enraged that a lucrative evening seemed likely to be broken up through a ridiculous sentimentality, had clawed away the bonnet from one, and dashed a handful of oyster-shells into the face of another, and having thus repudiated their interference, threw herself between the combatants, and with that curious distortion of mouth which among women of the inferior class indicates pathos, weepingly implored the champions to desist. Even to such tears as hers the sailor nature is very compassionate, and the men began to regard one another in a maudlin and reproachful way, which made it clear to every dissatisfied spectator that in two minutes more they would be drinking together with horrible oaths of everlasting friendship. Adair withdrew himself from the murmuring crowd, and proceeded on his way, when Haureau came up beside him.
“What do you mean by the answer you made just now?”
“What answer?”
“You said that you did not know that England was as open to me as to yourself.”
“Nor do I, nor do I care.”
And he walked on at a quickened pace. But though the powerful limbs of his companion were short, his power of step was great, and he easily kept abreast of Adair.
“Don’t speak to me in that fashion, Monsieur Adair. I have earned the right to be used more civilly.”
“I have nothing to say to you—you can have nothing to say to me—let us take our own ways.”
“Mine happens to be yours—yes, and whatever yours may happen to be,” added Haureau, as Ernest turned round. “Now.”
“Then you have something to say. What is it?”
“I am not to be bullied, that is the first thing, Adair,” said the other familiarly. “Don’t try that game. What,” he added, with a coarse laugh, “you were actually looking at that clown in police clothes—were you thinking of asking him to deliver a gentleman from the importunities of a low ruffian, who insists on addressing him. Dieu, what an aristo we have become since we used to fraternise with barbers, and that kind of canaille!”
“Canaille, as you say,” replied Ernest, with as offensive a sneer as he could assume.
And with the air of one who is compelled to endure, he lit a cigar, and leaned against one of the rails which in that region fence the outlying merchandise of the shopkeepers.
“Thank you!” said Haureau, dexterously snatching the cigar at the moment of its illumination, and transferring it to his own lips.
Adair smiled, and lit another, as calmly as if no such insult had been practised on him.
“What, not angry!” said Haureau, emitting a large puff of smoke. “The English air agrees with your temper.”
“Angry! With you, or with him?” replied Adair, quietly, and gently pushing away with his foot a dog that came up against him.
The retort stung Haureau, who showed his sumptuous white teeth with anything but a pleasant smile.
“You have no business, I tell you, to be so rough with me. I don’t speak of the little affair at Silvain’s,” and he laid his brawny hand on the arm that Adair had wounded. “That you might remember, but I don’t care to speak of. But I was waiting to be your friend on another occasion, Monsieur Adair, when you would have been more pleased to see me than you look at present.”
“I am not aware of it.”
“Don’t tell lies, because I know you saw me. You see everything, even cards that you don’t like. And on a certain day when you thought that two if not three strong-bodied Englishmen were coming to settle an account with you, I know that you were not sorry to see me standing about, ready to take a friend’s part if needful.”
“I suppose that you were ready to help me, or to strike me down from behind my back, as those who hired you might order.”
“Perhaps I was, but then I never strike without orders, like some people, and in consequence I can walk about this town in freedom instead of skulking in quarters which I hate. That’s near the mark, Monsieur Adair.”
“I am leading the life of a galley-slave, eh?” said Adair, giving point to his words by a savage look. “I must not walk out of my yard. Very well. I am sure of your sympathy, Monsieur Haureau?”
“You are a brave fellow, Ernest Adair,” replied his companion. “I always said that, and I never knew how right I was till now.”
“Deeply obliged by the compliment. Have you any more compliments, or may we break off this interesting conversation?”
“We do not part in this way. We can be useful to one another, and I am sure that you will be glad of it. Where are your lodgings? I was thinking of proposing to come and stop with you.”
“Ah!”
“That means that you don’t feel inclined to give me a strong recommendation to your landlord. You do not like responsibility. That is