"For my part," Muroc was saying, as Parpon nodded at them, and passed by,
"I'm not satisfied."
"Don't you get enough to eat?" asked the mealman, whose idea of happiness
was based upon the appreciation of a good dinner.
"But yes, and enough to drink, thanks to His Excellency, and the buttons
he puts on my coat." Muroc jingled some gold coins in his pocket. "It's
this being clean that's the devil! When I sold charcoal, I was black and
beautiful, and no dirt showed; I polished like a pan. Now if I touch a
potato, I'm filthy. Pipe-clay is hell's stuff to show you up as the Lord
made you." Garotte laughed. "Wait till you get to fighting. Powder sticks
better than charcoal. For my part, I'm always clean as a whistle."
"But you're like a bit of wool, lime-burner, you never sweat. Dirt don't
stick to you as to me and the meal man. Duclosse there used to look like
a pie when the meal and sweat dried on him. When we reach Paris, and His
Excellency gets his own, I'll take to charcoal again; I'll fill the
palace cellars. That suits me better than chalk and washing every day."
"Do you think we'll ever get to Paris?" asked the mealman, cocking his
head seriously.
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