ke," he returned. "But this is a superior
type. He has been a student in his day and even has taken prizes."

"I hope he has not the habit of taking them from the till," said Maitre
Sergeo, like a prudent patron. "What was his little affair?"

The sub-commandant consulted my ticket.

"An argument with a knife, it appears. A favorable case. Only his enemy
was so ill-conditioned as to die."

"I shall employ him," decided Maitre Sergeo. "A man who is handy with a
knife should also qualify with a razor."

That is how I came, as Bibi-Ri always said, to be scraping throats
instead of cutting them. Myself, I considered the jest rather poor
taste and Bibi-Ri a good deal of a chattering monkey. But what would
you? Nobody could be angry with that mad fellow. He was privileged.

Also, as it happened, Bibi-Ri himself was my single client on this
particular afternoon of which I speak. I recall it with an authentic
clearness: one of those days made in paradise for a reproach upon us
poor wretches in purgatory: the air sweet and mellow, spiced with tropic
blossoms: the sky a blue ravishment: the sunlight tawny in the street
outside as if seen through a glass of rich wine.

It was very quiet and peaceful. From the Place des Cocotiers not far
away one heard the band discoursing. Those convict musicians were
playing _Perle d'Italie_, as I bring to mind: a faded but graceful
melody. One could be almost happy at moments like this, forgetting the
shameful canvas uniform and the mockery of one's freedom on a leash. I
even hummed the tune as I listened and kept the measure with stropping
my blade.

I waited for Bibi-Ri. By an amiable conceit he never failed each day to
get his chin new razored--though in truth it resembled nothing so much
as a small onion: as I often told him.

"That is no reason why you should peel it, sacred farceur!" he would
sputter. "Please to notice I have only the one skin to my face!"

But this day he was late. I missed the merry rascal. His hour went by
and still he did not come. And then, of a sudden, I spied him.

He was passing among the market stalls on the opposite pave:
unmistakable, his quick, spare figure in the jacket tight-buttoned to
the chin as he always wore it and the convict's straw hat pulled low on
his brow. Bibi-Ri in fact. But he never even glanced to my side. At the
pace of a rent collector he hurried by and disappeared.... This is
singular, I thought. What game has he started now?