"
"Ah!" said Chauvelin, turning away with disgust from the
loathsome specimen of humanity before him.
The Jew, with characteristic patience, stood humbly on one
side, leaning on the knotted staff, his greasy, broad-brimmed hat
casting a deep shadow over his grimy face, waiting for the noble
Excellency to deign to put some questions to him.
"The citoyen tells me," said Chauvelin peremptorily to him,
"that you know something of my friend, the tall Englishman, whom I
desire to meet. . .MORBLEU! keep your distance, man," he added
hurriedly, as the Jew took a quick and eager step forward.
"Yes, your Excellency," replied the Jew, who spoke the
language with that peculiar lisp which denotes Eastern origin, "I and
Reuben Goldstein met a tall Englishman, on the road, close by here
this evening."
"Did you speak to him?"
"He spoke to us, your Excellency. He wanted to know if he
could hire a horse and cart to go down along the St. Martin road, to a
place he wanted to reach to-night."
"What did you say?"
"I did not say anything," said the Jew in an injured tone,
"Reuben Goldstein, that accursed traitor, that son of Belial.
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