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"Into this inclosure," answered Miton tearing his hands by seizing the thorns of the hedge. "Into that inclosure, it is not so easy. I see no opening, and you cannot climb a hedge that is higher than I am." "I will try," returned Miton, making new efforts. "Oh! take care, my good woman," cried Friard, in a tone of distress; "your ass is on my feet.
He was a gambler and libertine, yet with some tincture of science and professed interest in its progress. In his correspondence there is a letter to Pascal, in which he makes free in a somewhat ridiculous manner with the young geometrician already so distinguished. Other names still less reputable—those of Miton and Desbarreaux, for example—have been associated with Pascal during this period.
Then you think, monsieur," continued he, turning again toward him, "that there will be a tumult?" "I did not say so." "No; but I believe you think so." "And on what do you found your surmise, M. Friard?" "Why, he knows me!" "Have I not named you two or three times?" said Miton. "Ah! true. Well, since he knows me, perhaps he will answer.
It seems to say, I would gladly inconvenience myself if you really required me to do so, seeing I am ready to do so without serving you. “‘This is my dog,’ say children; ‘that sunny seat is mine.’ There is the beginning and type of the usurpation of the whole earth. “This I is hateful. You, Miton, merely cover it, you do not take it away; you are therefore always hateful.
"Oh, oh!" said M. Miton; "this man talks in a singular way. Do you know who he is, compere?" "No." "Then why do you speak to him? You are wrong. I do not think he likes to talk." "And yet it seems to me," replied Friard, loud enough to be heard by the stranger, "that one of the greatest pleasures in life is to exchange thoughts." "Yes, with those whom we know well," answered M. Miton.
"No, monsieur," replied the little man, visibly frightened at this suggestion; "I wait for my wife, Nicole Friard, who has gone to take twenty-four tablecloths to the priory of the Jacobins, having the honor to be washerwoman to Dom. Modeste Gorenflot, the abbe." "Look, compere," cried Miton, "at what is passing."
See, without counting those already on the Place de Greve, or who came there from different parts of Paris, the number of people here; and this is but one gate out of sixteen." "One hundred thousand! that is much, Friard," replied M. Miton. "Be sure many people will follow my example, and not go to see this unlucky man quartered, for fear of an uproar."
Miton was undoubtedly an intimate ally of De Méré, and amidst all his dissoluteness, made pretensions to scientific knowledge and attainments as a writer. Desbarreaux was a companion of both, but of a still lower grade—a man of open profligacy, and a despiser of the rites of the Church.
As he spoke, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and, looking round and seeing that it was a Swiss, he took to flight, followed by Miton. The other man laughed quietly, then turning to the Swiss, said: "Are the Lorraines coming?" "No." "Then why do they close the door. I do not understand it." "There is no need that you should," replied the Swiss, laughing at his own wit.
By his side a little man, mounted on a hillock, was talking to another tall man who was constantly slipping off the summit of the same hillock, and at each slip catching at the button of his neighbor's doublet. "Yes, Maitre Miton," said the little man to the tall one, "yes, I tell you that there will be 100,000 people around the scaffold of Salcede 100,000 at least.
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