But really, the longer I look at you, the more I think I know your face.

You are not Nicholas Trouchon, but still I know you." "Silence!" "And if you buy cuirasses--" "Well!" "I am sure it is for a work agreeable to God." "Hold your tongue!" "You enchant me!" cried the bourgeois, stretching out a long arm over the balcony and seizing the hand of the dealer.
"Then who the devil are you ?" cried he, who felt his hand held as if in a vise.
"I am Robert Briquet, the terror of schismatics, the friend of the Union, and a fierce Catholic; and you are not Nicholas Gimbelot, the currier." "No, no! good-by." "What! are you going ?" "Yes!" and he ran off.
But Robert Briquet was not a man to be foiled; he jumped from his balcony and ran after him.
"You are mad!" said he.

"If I were your enemy, I have but to cry out, and the watch is in the next street; but you are my friend, and now I know your name.

You are Nicholas Poulain, lieutenant to the provost of Paris.

I knew it was Nicholas something." "I am lost!" murmured the man.
"No; you are saved.