The Slave of the Lamp | Page 8

butcher succumbed, as he was bound to do, to the man whom he shrewdly suspected of being an aristocrat.
He who entered the room immediately afterwards was of a very different type. His mode of entry was of another description. Whereas the man of blood swaggered in with an air of nervous truculence, as if he were afraid that some one was desirous of disputing his equality, the next comer crept in softly, and closed the door with accuracy. He was the incarnation of benevolence--in the best sense of the word, a sweet old man--looking out upon the world through large tinted spectacles with a beam which could not be otherwise than blind to all motes. In earlier years his face might, perhaps, have been a trifle hard in its contour; but Time, the lubricator, had eased some of the corners, and it was now the seat of kindness and love. He bowed ceremoniously to the first comer, and his manner seemed rather to breathe of fraternity than equality. As he bowed he mentioned the gentleman's name in such loving tones that no greeting could have been heartier.
"Citizen Morot," he said.
The butcher, with more haste than dignity, assumed the chair which stood at the opposite end of the table to that occupied by the Citizen Morot. He had evidently hurried in first in order to secure that seat. From his pocket he produced a somewhat soiled paper, which he threw with exaggerated carelessness across the table. His manner was not entirely free from a suggestion of patronage.
"What have we here?" inquired the first comer, who had not hitherto opened his lips, with a deep interest which might possibly have been ironical. He was just the sort of man to indulge in irony for his own satisfaction. He unfolded the paper, raised his eyebrows, and read.
"Ah!" he said, "a receipt for five hundred rifles with bayonets and shoulder-straps complete. 'Received of the Citizen Morot five hundred rifles with bayonets and shoulder-straps complete.--Antoine Lerac.'"
He folded the paper again and carefully tore it into very small pieces.
"Thank you," he said gravely.
Then he turned in his chair and threw the papers into the ash-tray of the little iron stove behind him.
"I judged it best to be strictly business-like," said the butcher, with moderately well-simulated carelessness.
"But yes, Monsieur Lerac," with a shrug. "We of the Republic distrust each other so completely."
The old gentleman looked from one to the other with a soothing smile.
"The brave Lerac," he said, "is a man of business."
Citizen Morot ignored this observation.
"And," he said, turning to Lerac, "you have them stored in a safe place? There is absolutely no doubt of that?"
"Absolutely none."
"Good."
"They are under my own eye."
"Very good. It is not for a short time only, but for some months. One cannot hurry the people. Besides, we are not ready. The rifles we bought, the ammunition we must steal."
"They are good rifles--they are English," said the butcher.
"Yes; the English Government is full of chivalry. They are always ready to place it within the power of their enemies to be as well armed as themselves."
The old gentleman laughed--a pleasant, cooing laugh. He invariably encouraged humour, this genial philanthropist.
"At last Friday's meeting," Lerac said shortly, "we enrolled forty new members. We now number four hundred and two in our arrondissement alone."
"Good," muttered the Citizen Morot, without enthusiasm.
"And four hundred hardy companions they are."
"So I should imagine" (very gravely).
"Four hundred strong men," broke in the old gentleman rather hastily. "Ah, but that is already a power."
"It is," opined Lerac sententiously, "the strong man who is the power. Riches are nothing; birth is nothing. This is the day of force. Force is everything."
"Everything," acquiesced Morot fervently. He was consulting a small note-book, wherein he jotted down some figures.
"Four hundred and two," he muttered as he wrote, "up to Friday night, in the arrondissement of the citizen--the good citizen--Antoine Lerac."
The butcher looked up with a doubtful expression upon his coarse face. His great brutal lips twitched, and he was on the point of speaking when the Citizen Morot's velvety eyes met his gaze with a quiet smile in which arrogance and innocence were mingled.
"And now," said the last-mentioned, turning affably to the old gentleman, "let us have the report of the reverend Father."
"Ah," laughed Lerac, without attempting to conceal the contempt that was in his soul, "the Church."
The old gentleman spread out his hands in mild deprecation.
"Yes," he admitted, "we are under a shadow. I do not even dare to wear my cassock."
"You are in a valley of shadow, my reverend friend," said the butcher, with visible exultation, "to which the sun will never penetrate now."
The Citizen Morot laughed at this pleasantry, while the old man against whom it was directed bowed his head patiently.
"And yet," said the laugher, with a certain air of patronage, "the