“Dass bleibt mir gleich,” he heard the Fox saying. “Ernst dort ist mein, wie heisst das auf Franzözisch, mein comptable10.” He pointed at a third man at the table: the Fox’s personal assistant, sitting ramrod straight, clad in white with a Venetian puff hat and trousers whose generous cut was still tight on the man’s broad thighs.
A young couple stood up from a table nearby and took their chairs with them to join a bunch of jeering revellers. Looking up, Mangin saw that the proprietor was keeping an eye on them and pointed toward the table. Two chairs were brought. Mangin sat and motioned Cambronne.
“Sit down. They can read from your face that you’re a flicard11, for God’s sake.”
“So you think,” Cambronne said, “but for my part I can see in their faces that they’re all salon anarchists.
