One evening when old Brotteaux arrived in the Rue de la Loi bringing a gross of dancing-dolls for the citoyen Caillou, the toy-merchant, the latter, a soft-spoken, polite man as a rule, stood there stiff and stern among his dolls and punch-and-judies and gave him a far from gracious welcome.

“Have a care, citoyen Brotteaux,” he began, “have a care!  There is a time to laugh, and a time to be serious; jokes are not always in good taste.  A member of the Committee of Security of the Section, who inspected my establishment yesterday, saw your dancing-dolls and deemed them anti-revolutionary.”

“He was jesting!” declared Brotteaux.

“Not so, citoyen, not at all.  He is not the man to joke.  He said in these little fellows the National representatives were insidiously mimicked, that in particular one could discover caricatures of Couthon, Saint-Just and Robespierre, and he seized the lot.  It is a dead loss to me, to say nothing of the grave risks to which I am exposed.”

“What! these Harlequins, these Gilles, these Scaramouches, these Colins and Colinettes, which I have painted the same as Boucher used to fifty years ago, how should they be parodies of Couthons and Saint-Justs?  No sensible man could imagine such a thing.”

“It is possible,” replied the citoyen Caillou, “that you acted without malice, albeit we must always distrust a man of parts like you.  But it is a dangerous game.  Shall I give you an instance?  Natoile, who runs a little outdoor theatre in the Champs Elysees, was arrested the day before yesterday for anti-patriotism, because he made Polichinelle poke fun at the Convention.”

“Now listen to me,” Brotteaux urged, raising the cloth that covered his little dangling figures; “just look at these masks and faces, are they anything else whatever but characters in plays and pastorals?  How could you let yourself be persuaded, citoyen Caillou, that I was making fun of the National Convention?”

Brotteaux was dumfounded.  While allowing much for human folly, he had not thought it possible it could ever go so far as to suspect his Scaramouches and Colinettes.  Repeatedly he protested their innocence and his; but the citoyen Caillou would not hear a word.

“Citoyen Brotteaux, take your dolls away.  I esteem you, I honour you, but I do not mean to incur blame or get into trouble because of you.  I intend to remain a good citizen and to be treated as such.  Good evening, citoyen Brotteaux; take your dolls away.”

The old man set out again for home, carrying his suspects over his shoulder at the end of a pole, an object of derision to the children, who took him for the hawker of rat-poison.  His thoughts were gloomy.  No doubt, he did not live only by his dancing-dolls; he used to paint portraits at twenty sols apiece, under the archways of doors or in one of the market halls, among the darners and old-clothes menders, where he found many a young recruit starting for the front and wanting to leave his likeness behind for his sweetheart.  But these petty tasks cost him endless pains, and he was a long way from making as good portraits as he did dancing-dolls.  Sometimes, too, he acted as amanuensis for the Market dames, but this meant mixing himself up in Royalist plots, and the risks were heavy.  He remembered there lived in the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, near the erstwhile Place Vendome, another toy-merchant, Joly by name, and he resolved to go next day to offer him the goods the chicken-hearted Caillou had declined.

A fine rain began to fall.  Brotteaux who feared its effects on his marionettes, quickened his pace.  As he crossed the Pont-Neuf and was turning the corner of the Place de Thionville, he saw by the light of a street-lamp, sitting on a stone post, a lean old man who seemed utterly exhausted with fatigue and hunger, but still preserved his venerable appearance.  He was dressed in a tattered surtout, had no hat and appeared over sixty.  Approaching the poor wretch, Brotteaux recognised the Pere Longuemare, the same he had saved from hanging six months before while both of them were waiting in queue in front of the bakery in the Rue de Jerusalem.  Feeling bound to the monk by the service he had already done him, Brotteaux stepped up to him and made himself known as the publican who had stood beside him among the common herd, one day of great scarcity, and asked him if he could not be of some use to him.

“You seem wearied, Father.  Take a taste of cordial,” ­and Brotteaux drew from the pocket of his plum-coloured coat a flask of brandy, which lay there alongside his Lucretius.

“Drink.  And I will help you to get back to your house.”

The Pere Longuemare pushed away the flask with his hand and tried to rise, but only to fall back again in his seat.

“Sir,” he said in a weak but firm voice, “for three months I have been living at Picpus.  Being warned they had come to arrest me at my lodging, yesterday at five o’clock of the afternoon, I did not return home.  I have no place to go to; I am wandering the streets and am a little fatigued.”

“Very well, Father,” proposed Brotteaux, “do me the honour to share my garret.”

“Sir,” replied the Barnabite, “you know, I suppose, I am a suspect.”

“I am one too,” said Brotteaux, “and my marionettes into the bargain, which is the worst thing of all.  You see them exposed under this flimsy cloth to the fine rain that chills our bones.  For, I must tell you, Father, that after having been a publican, I now make dancing-dolls for a living.”

The Pere Longuemare took the hand the ci-devant financier extended to him and accepted the hospitality offered.  Brotteaux, in his garret, served him a meal of bread and cheese and wine, which last he had put to cool in the rain-gutter, for was he not a Sybarite?

Having appeased his hunger: 

“Sir,” said the Pere Longuemare, “I ought to inform you of the circumstances that led to my flight and left me to die on yonder post where you found me.  Driven from my cloister, I lived on the scanty allowance the Assembly had assigned to me; I gave lessons in Latin and Mathematics and I wrote pamphlets on the persecution of the Church of France.  I have even composed a work of some length, to prove that the Constitutional oath of the Priests is subversive of Ecclesiastical discipline.  The advances made by the Revolution deprived me of all my pupils, while I could not get my pension because I had not the certificate of citizenship required by law.  This certificate I went to the Hotel de Ville to claim, in the conviction I was well entitled to it.  Member of an order founded by the Apostle Paul himself, who boasted the title of Roman citizen, I always piqued myself on behaving after his example as a good French citizen, a respecter of all human laws which are not in opposition to the Divine.  I presented my demand to Monsieur Colin, pork-butcher and Municipal officer, in charge of the delivery of certificates of the sort.  He questioned me as to my calling.  I told him I was a Priest.  He asked me if I was married, and on my answering that I was not, he told me that was the worse for me.  Finally, after a variety of questions, he asked me if I had proved my citizenship on the 10th August, the 2nd September and the 31st May.  ’No certificates can be given,’ he added, ’except to such as have proved their patriotism by their behaviour on these three occasions.’  I could not give him an answer that would satisfy him.  However, he took down my name and address and promised me to make prompt enquiry into my case.  He kept his word, and as the result of his enquiry two Commissioners of the Committee of General Security of Picpus, supported by an armed band, presented themselves at my lodging in my absence to conduct me to prison.  I do not know of what crime I am accused.  But you will agree with me one must pity Monsieur Colin, whose wits are so clouded he holds it a reproach to an ecclesiastic not to have made display of his patriotism on the 10th August, the 2nd September, and the 31st May.  A man capable of such a notion is surely deserving of commiseration.”

“I am in the same plight, I have no certificate,” observed Brotteaux.  “We are both suspects.  But you are weary.  To bed, Father.  We will discuss plans to-morrow for your safety.”

He gave the mattress to his guest and kept the palliasse for himself; but the monk in his humility demanded the latter with so much urgency that his wish had to be complied with; otherwise he would have slept on the boards.

These arrangements completed, Brotteaux blew out the candle both to save tallow and as a wise precaution.

“Sir,” the monk addressed him, “I am thankful for what you are doing for me; but alas! it is of small moment to you whether I am grateful or no.  May God account your act meritorious! That is of infinite concern for you.  But God pays no heed to what is not done for his glory and is merely the outcome of purely natural virtue.  Wherefore I beseech you, sir, to do for Him what you were led to do for me.”

“Father,” answered Brotteaux, “never trouble yourself on this head and do not think of gratitude.  What I am doing now, the merit of which you exaggerate, ­is not done for any love of you; for indeed, albeit you are a lovable man, Father, I know you too little to love you.  Nor yet do I act so for love of humanity; for I am not so simple as to think with ‘Don Juan’ that humanity has rights; indeed this prejudice, in a mind so emancipated as his, grieves me.  I do it out of that selfishness which inspires mankind to perform all their deeds of generosity and self-sacrifice, by making them recognize themselves in all who are unfortunate, by disposing them to commiserate their own calamities in the calamities of others and by inciting them to offer help to a mortal resembling themselves in nature and destiny, so that they think they are succouring themselves in succouring him.  I do it also for lack of anything better to do; for life is so desperately insipid we must find distraction at any cost, and benevolence is an amusement, of a mawkish sort, one indulges in for want of any more savoury; I do it out of pride and to get an advantage over you; I do it, in a word, as part of a system and to show you what an atheist is capable of.”

“Do not calumniate yourself, sir,” replied the Pere Longuemare.  “I have received of God more marks of grace than He has accorded you hitherto; but I am not as good a man as you, and am greatly your inferior in natural merits.  But now let me take an advantage too over you.  Not knowing me, you cannot love me.  And I, sir, without knowing you, I love you better than myself; God bids me do so.”

Having so said, the Pere Longuemare knelt down on the floor, and after repeating his prayers, stretched himself on his palliasse and fell peacefully asleep.