As for Rampaille, the butcher, _he_ has mingled with the public.

He is rich but dressed with bad taste.

It is his habit to say, "I am a poor man of the people, I am; look at my dirty clothes." A moment ago, when the lady who was collecting for the Lest-we-Forget League suddenly confronted him and trapped him amid general attention, he fumbled desperately in his fob and dragged three sous out of his body.

There are several like him on this side of the barrier, looking as though they were part of the crowd, but only attached to it by their trade.

Kings do not now carry royalty everywhere on their sleeves; they obliterate themselves in the clothes of everybody.