fellow, was now, in addition to his civil-service post,
box-keeper at the Cirque-Olympique. Bixiou never ventured on tormenting
Fleury, for the rough trooper, who was a good shot and clever at
fencing, seemed quite capable of extreme brutality if provoked. An
ardent subscriber to "Victoires et Conquetes," Fleury nevertheless
refused to pay his subscription, though he kept and read the copies,
alleging that they exceeded the number proposed in the prospectus. He
adored Monsieur Rabourdin, who had saved him from dismissal, and was
even heard to say that if any misfortune happened to the chief through
anybody's fault he would kill that person. Dutocq meanly courted Fleury
because he feared him. Fleury, crippled with debt, played many a trick
on his creditors. Expert in legal matters, he never signed a promissory
note; and had prudently attached his own salary under the names of
fictitious creditors, so that he was able to draw nearly the whole of it
himself. He played ecarte, was the life of evening parties, tossed off
glasses of champagne without wetting his lips, and knew all the songs of
Beranger by heart. He was proud of his full, sonorous voice. His three
great admirations were Napoleon, Bolivar, and Beranger. Foy, Lafitte,
and Casimir Delavigne he only esteemed. Fleury, as you will have guessed
already, was a Southerner, destined, no doubt, to become the responsible
editor of a liberal journal.

Desroys, the mysterious clerk of the division, consorted with no one,
talked little, and hid his private life so carefully that no one knew
where he lived, nor who were his protectors, nor what were his means of
subsistence. Looking about them for the causes of this reserve, some
of his colleagues thought him a "carbonaro," others an Orleanist; there
were others again who doubted whether to call him a spy or a man of
solid merit. Desroys was, however, simple and solely the son of a
"Conventionel," who did not vote the king's death. Cold and prudent by
temperament, he had judged the world and ended by relying on no one but
himself. Republican in secret, an admirer of Paul-Louis Courier and a
friend of Michael Chrestien, he looked to time and public intelligence
to bring about the triumph of his opinions from end to end of Europe.
He dreamed of a new Germany and a new Italy. His heart swelled with that
dull, collective love which we must call humanitarianism, the eldest son
of deceased philanthropy, and which is to the divine c