"Abricole with the number seven to the left."

Courfeyrac looked over the surface of the table with the skeptical but restrained eye of a longtime player who was no longer a dilettante and not yet a master.

"As you wish," he conceded.

"I do wish," said the man and sank the target ball with a quick, powerful shot. "So you were saying," he continued, maneuvering around the table with his eyes fixed on the scattered balls.

""Oh, yes, the show. It was mediocre."

"Mediocre..." murmured the man distractedly as he surveyed the table. "I believe it. Porte-Saint-Martin rarely presents anything in my taste."

"Though Frederick played quite well as usual," allowed Courfeyrac.

"Aah!" murmured the man. "Robert Macaire..." Then he spoke up abruptly: "Nine to right corner pocket. Klapschtoss."

He bent over the table like a giraffe; his square chin hovered several short inches away from the cue.

"Quite a deep shot for that. It'd be handier if you divested yourself of the coat," Courfeyrac advised.

"Don't teach the hen, you egg," said the man brusquely. Deflated, Courfeyrac watched the ball roll obediently into the pocket. But the next shot did not succeed: a miscalculated angle and excessive top spin sent the ball off the rim and out towards the rail.

Courfeyrac stretched as far as he could over the table to reach the tantalizingly easy shot.

"Llllegs! Legs off the table," ordered the man.

'Easy for you to say, you bloody stork,' thought Courfeyrac furiously.

"None of that, Lisette," said the man, as if he had overheard Courfeyrac's thoughts. "Haven't we already arranged a handicap for your benefit?" He paused and scratched his ear. "Not to say you have a chance against me or anything," he added with a grin that demonstrated an extraordinary number of large even teeth.

Courfeyrac began to aim. At that moment, the man bent towards his ear and spoke softly:

"So how's the Revolution doing, dear Friend?"

Courfeyrac started. The cue slipped, sending the ball sideways instead of forward. Without wasting a beat, the man lined up his own shot and finished the game with a stroke so powerful it made the entire table shake.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Courfeyrac seriously.

"The Revolution, you know? Overthrow of the existent government structure by use of military or paramilitary force. How are the preparations going? Last I heard you fellows were actively acquiring illegal guns."

Thunderstruck into numbness, Courfeyrac kept his silence.

"Lenoir! Canler!" called out the man. The two players at the neighboring table put down their cues and positioned themselves to the right and the left of Courfeyrac.

"You are under arrest on suspicion of conspiracy. Don't make a fuss. It would be a very bad idea to add 'resisted arrest' to your list of charges. Let's go."

"One moment," finally managed to squeeze out Courfeyrac. Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out a five-franc coin. "A bet is a bet," he said and tossed the coin onto the table. "Here, go buy yourself a bone, you government lapdog."

Javert rolled his eyes.

"You know, perhaps you ought to try out for a spot at Porte-Saint-Martin yourself. You'll have the public rolling in the aisles." He grabbed the young man firmly above the elbow and half-lead half-dragged him towards the backdoor without sparing the coin a glance.