"Mad?" he cried. "No, but some one is, Sir," he continued,
turning to La Font with a gesture in which appeal and impatience
were curiously blended, "Do you know this man?"
"M. Grabot? Certainly," he answered, without blushing. "And
have these ten years."
"And you say that he is M. Grabot?" the poor Mayor retorted, his
jaw falling ludicrously.
"Certainly. Who should he be?"
The Mayor looked round him, sudden beads of sweat on his brow.
"MON DIEU!" be cried. "You are all in it. Here, you, do you
know this person?"
La Trape, to whom he addressed himself, shrugged his shoulders.
"I should," he said. "The Mayor is pretty well known about
here."
"The Mayor?"
"Ay."
"But I am the Mayor--I," Grabot answered eagerly, tapping himself
on the breast in the most absurd manner. "Don't you know me, my
friend?"
"I never saw you before, to my knowledge," the rascal answered
contemptuously; "and I know this country pretty well. I should
think that you have been crossing St. Brieuc's brook, and
forgotten to say your--"
"Hush!" the stout player interposed with some sharpness.
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