"It's a good reason for your staying to finish it, while I fetch M. Grimaud."
"You'll come back?"
"Nay, if you wish it, I'll stay," and he threw himself back on to his seat with an air of impatience. "Be quick, my good friend."
"You'd better go. It's too good stuff to swallow in gulps," and the soldier winked appreciatively, as he emptied his glass leisurely in sips and re-filled it.
"Well, we'll have a third reason in, then. Luck waits on odd numbers," and he ordered the third flask, paid the reckoning, and took half a glassful.
The "third reason" carried conviction, and when Pascal next rose to leave, the soldier no longer raised any objection.
What step to take next was a question of some difficulty. The experience at the city gate had shown that Pascal could only hope to leave if some burgher of importance could be found to vouch for him, and the first thought was to try and find some one who would do this. But where to go? He could not tell who were for the Castle and who for Malincourt, and to look for Babillon was pretty much like looking for a bullet that had missed its mark and buried itself somewhere in the ground.
He was standing in the market-place gazing about him vaguely and debating the thing when a stroke of fortune came his way. He caught sight of Dubois and hurried after him.
The old soldier was in a gruff mood.
"These burghers are fools: you know the sort, Pascal. Babblers, gabblers, brawlers, windbags, with never an ounce of resolution in the lot," he said in reply to Pascal's question as to how he had fared with them. "A cataract of talk and nothing else."
"Well, I want one of them to come and talk now,"
