He is whispering low to his friend in the intervals of eating,--an employment pursued with the hearty gusto of a hungry man.
But his friend does not seem to sympathize with the cheerful feelings of his comrade; he is pale, and there is terror on his face; and you may see that the journal in his hand trembles like a leaf.
In the gardens of the Tuileries some score or so of gossips group together.
"And no news of the murderer ?" asked one.
"No; but the man who had been friend to Robespierre must have made secret enemies enough." "Ce pauvre Dalibard! He was not mixed up with the Terrorists, nevertheless." "Ah, but the more deadly for that, perhaps; a sly man was Olivier Dalibard!" "What's the matter ?" said an employee, lounging up to the group.

"Are you talking of Olivier Dalibard?
It is but the other day he had Marsan's appointment.

He is now to have Pleyel's.

I heard it two days ago; a capital thing! Peste! il ira loin.

We shall have him a senator soon." "Speak for yourself," quoth a ci-devant abbe, with a laugh; "I should be sorry to see him again soon, wherever he be." "Plait-il?
I don't understand you!" "Don't you know that Olivier Dalibard is murdered, found stabbed,--in his own house, too!" "Ciel! Pray tell me all you know.