the beginning. You all know that it is so."

Lapoulle's rustic simplicity revolted at the idea.

"For shame! what wicked people they must be!"

"Yes, sold, as Judas sold his master," murmured Pache, mindful of his
studies in sacred history.

It was Chouteau's hour of triumph. "_Mon Dieu!_ it is as plain as the
nose on your face. MacMahon got three millions and each of the other
generals got a million, as the price of bringing us up here. The
bargain was made at Paris last spring, and last night they sent up a
rocket as a signal to let Bismarck know that everything was fixed and
he might come and take us."

The story was so inanely stupid that Maurice was disgusted. There had
been a time when Chouteau, thanks to his facundity of the faubourg,
had interested and almost convinced him, but now he had come to detest
that apostle of falsehood, that snake in the grass, who calumniated
honest effort of every kind in order to sicken others of it.

"Why do you talk such nonsense?" he exclaimed. "You know very well
there is no truth in it."

"What, not true? Do you mean to say it is not true that we are
betrayed? Ah, come, my aristocratic friend, perhaps you are one of
them, perhaps you belong to the d--d band of dirty traitors?" He came
forward threateningly. "If you are you have only to say so, my fine
gentleman, for we will attend to your case right here, and won't wait