"Has not Gringuet told you?" he repeated, reddening with anger; and
this time speaking, on compulsion, so loudly that the peasants could
hear him.
I answered him in the same tone. "Yes," I said roundly. "He has told
me; of course, that every year you give him two hundred livres to omit
your name."
He glanced behind him with an oath. "Man, are you mad?" he gasped,
his jaw falling. "They will hear you."
"Yes," I said loudly, "I mean them to hear me."
I do not know what he thought of this--perhaps that I was mad--but he
staggered back from me, and looked wildly round. Finding everyone
laughing, he looked again at me, but still failed to understand; on
which, with another oath, he turned on his heel, and forcing his way
through the grinning crowd, was out of sight in a moment.
I was about to return to my seat, when a pursy, pale-faced man, with
small eyes and a heavy jowl, whom I had before noticed, pushed his way
through the line, and came to me. Though his neighbours were all
laughing he was sober, and in a moment I understood why.
"I am very deaf," he said in a whisper. "My name, Monsieur, is
Philippon. I am a--"