rotteaux," he began, "have a care! There is a
time to laugh, and a time to be serious; jokes are not always in good
taste. A member of the Committee of Security of the Section, who
inspected my establishment yesterday, saw your dancing-dolls and deemed
them anti-revolutionary."

"He was jesting!" declared Brotteaux.

"Not so, _citoyen_, not at all. He is not the man to joke. He said in
these little fellows the National representatives were insidiously
mimicked, that in particular one could discover caricatures of Couthon,
Saint-Just and Robespierre, and he seized the lot. It is a dead loss to
me, to say nothing of the grave risks to which I am exposed."

"What! these Harlequins, these Gilles, these Scaramouches, these Colins
and Colinettes, which I have painted the same as Boucher used to fifty
years ago, how should they be parodies of Couthons and Saint-Justs? No
sensible man could imagine such a thing."

"It is possible," replied the _citoyen_ Caillou, "that you acted
without malice, albeit we must always distrust a man of parts like you.
But it is a dangerous game. Shall I give you an instance? Natoile, who
runs a little outdoor theatre in the Champs Elysees, was arrested the
day before yesterday for anti-patriotism, because he made Polichinelle
poke fun at the Convention."

"Now listen to me," Brotteaux urged, raising the cloth that covered his
little dangling figures; "just look at these masks and faces, are they
anything else whatever but characters in plays and pastorals? How could
you let yourself be persuaded, _citoyen_ Caillou, that I was making fun
of the National Convention?"

Brotteaux was dumfounded. While allowing much for human folly, he had
not thought it possible it could ever go so far as to suspect his
Scaramouches and Colinettes. Repeatedly he protested their innocence and
his; but the _citoyen_ Caillou would not hear a word.

"_Citoyen_ Brotteaux, take your dolls away. I esteem you, I honour you,
but I do not mean to incur blame or get into trouble because of you. I
intend to remain a good citizen and to be treated as such. Good evening,
_citoyen_ Brotteaux; take your dolls away."

The old man set out again for home, carrying his suspects over his
shoulder at the end of a pole, an object of derision to the children,
who took him for the hawker of rat-poison. His thoughts were gloomy. No
doubt, he did not live only by his dancing-dolls; he used to paint
portraits at twenty _sols_ apiece, un