When we reach Paris, and His
Excellency gets his own, I'll take to charcoal again; I'll fill the
palace cellars. That suits me better than chalk and washing every day."
"Do you think we'll ever get to Paris?" asked the mealman, cocking his
head seriously.
"That's the will of God, and the weather at sea, and what the Orleans
do," answered Muroc grinning.
It was hard to tell how deep this adventure lay in Muroc's mind. He had
a prodigious sense of humour, the best critic in the world.
"For me," said the lime-burner, "I think there'll be fighting before we
get to the Orleans. There's talk that the Gover'ment's coming against
us."
"Done!" said the charcoalman. "We'll see the way our great man puts
their noses out of joint."
"Here's Lajeunesse," broke in the mealman, as the blacksmith came near to
their fire. He was dressed in complete regimentals, made by the parish
tailor.
"Is that so, monsieur le capitaine?" said Muroc to Lajeunesse. "Is the
Gover'ment to be fighting us? Why should it? We're only for licking the
Orleans, and who cares a sou for them, hein?"
"Not a go-dam," said Duclosse, airing his one English oath.
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