Page:The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.djvu/89

neck, to the thunderstroke of apoplexy. Idiocy was written in capital letters on his low forehead, surmounted by a little black skull-cap. His name was Monsieur Mouton, and he was a clerk at the town hall of the 4th Arrondissement, where he acted as registrar of deaths.

“Monsieur Rodolphe,” exclaimed he, in the squeaky tones of a eunuch, shaking the young fellow by a button of his coat which he had laid hold of. “Do you want to know my opinion? Well, all your newspapers are of no use whatever. Come now, let us put a supposititious case. I am the father of a family, am I not? Good. I go to the café for a game at dominoes? Follow my argument now.”

“Go on,” said Rodolphe.

“Well,” continued Daddy Mouton, punctuating each of his sentences by a blow with his first which made the jugs and glasses on the table rattle again. “Well, I come across the papers. What do I see? One which says black when the other says white, and so on and so on. What is all that to me? I am the father of a family who goes to the café—”

“For a game at dominoes,” said Rodolphe.

“Every evening,” continued Monsieur Mouton. “Well, to put a case—you understand?”

“Exactly,” observed Rodolphe.

“I read an article which is not according to my views. That puts me in a rage, and I fret my heart out, because you see, Monsieur Rodolphe, newspapers are all lies. Yes, lies,” he screeched in his shrillest falsetto, “and the journalists are robbers.”

“But, Monsieur Mouton—”

“Yes, brigands,” continued the clerk. “They are the cause of all our misfortunes; they brought about the Revolution and its paper money, witness Murat”

“Excuse me,” said Rodolphe, “you mean Marat.”