Note 45 — Chapter 3

To illustrate the feeling which prompted my ‘Red’ friend to make use of the word Monsieur in his conversation with the policeman, to avoid abusing the word citoyen, I must describe the following incident. In one of the poor, dark, and dirty streets that lie between Soho and Leicester Square, where a considerable proportion of the poorer exiles are usually encamped, a ‘Red’ liquoriste opened a little chemist’s shop. As I happened to be passing I went into it for a sedative drink. He was sitting behind the counter himself: tall, with coarse features, thick, overhanging brows, a big nose and a mouth rather on one side—a typical provincial terrorist of 1794 with a shaven chin into the bargain. ‘Sixpennyworth of Raspail water, Monsieur,’ said I. He weighed out some sort of herb, which a little girl had come to fetch, taking no notice of my inquiry; I could observe this Collot d’Herbois at my leisure, till he had at last sealed up the corners of the paper packet and written an inscription on it. Then he turned somewhat severely to me with ‘Plaît-il?’ ‘Sixpennyworth of Raspail water, Monsieur,’ I repeated. He looked at me with a ferocious expression and, scanning me from head to foot, said in a deep and dignified voice, ‘Citoyen, s’il vous plaît.’—(Author’s Note.)