They thought he looked a likely wearer of the dead honors of Rire-pour-tout.
He did not answer the question literally, but came over from the doorway and seated himself at the little marble table opposite Claude, leaning his elbows on it.
"I have a doubt," he said.

"I am more inclined to your foes." "Dieu de Dieu!" exclaimed Chanrellon, pulling at his tawny mustaches.

"A bold thing to say before five Chasseurs." He smiled, a little contemptuously, a little amusedly.
"I am not a croc-mitaine, perhaps; but I say what I think, with little heed of my auditors, usually." Chanrellon bent his bright brown eyes curiously on him.

"He is a croc-mitaine," he thought.

"He is not to be lost." "I prefer your foes," went on the other, quite quietly, quite listlessly, as though the glittering, gas-lit cafe were not full of French soldiers.