The Slave of the Lamp | Page 9

Church is of some use still. She paid for those rifles, and she will pay for the ammunition--is it not so, my father?"
"Without doubt--without doubt."
"Not to mention," continued the other, "many contributions towards our general fund. The force that is supplied by the strong right arm of the people is, one finds, a force constantly in need of substantial replenishment."
"But," exclaimed the butcher, emphatically banging his fist down upon the table, "why does she do it? That is what I want to know!"
The old priest glanced furtively towards Morot, and then his face assumed an air of childish bewilderment.
"Ah!" he said guilelessly, "who can tell?"
"Who, indeed!" chimed in Morot.
The butcher was pleased with himself. He sat upright, and, banging the table a second time, he looked round defiantly.
"But," said Morot, in an indifferent way which was frequently characteristic, "I do not see that it matters much. The money is good. It buys rifles, and it places them in the hands of the Citizen Lerac and his hardy companions. And when all is said and done, when the cartridges are burnt and a New Commune is raised, what does it matter whose money bought the rifles, and with what object the money was supplied?"
The old gentleman looked relieved. He was evidently of a timid and conciliatory nature, and would, with slight encouragement, have turned upon that Church of which he was the humble representative, merely for the sake of peace.
The butcher cleared his throat after the manner of the streets--causing Morot to wince visibly--and acquiesced.
"But," he added cunningly, "the Church, see you--Ach! it is deep--it is treacherous. Never trust the Church!"
The Citizen Morot, to whom these remarks were addressed, smiled in a singular way and made no reply. Then he turned gravely to the old man and said--
"Have you nothing to report to us--my father?"
"Nothing of great importance," replied he humbly. "All is going on well. We are in treaty for two hundred rifles with the Montenegrin Government, and shall no doubt carry the contract through. I go to England next week in order to carry out the--the--what shall I say?--the loan of the ammunition."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the butcher.
Morot smiled also, as he made an entry in the little note-book.
"Next week?" he said interrogatively.
"Yes--on Tuesday."
"Thank you."
The butcher here rose and ostentatiously dragged out a watch from the depths of his blouse.
"I must go," he said. "I have committee at seven o'clock. And I shall dine first."
"Yes," said Morot gravely. "Dine first. Take good care of yourself, citizen."
"Trust me."
"I do," was the reply, delivered with a little nod in answer to Lerac's curt farewell bow.
The butcher walked noisily through the shop--heavy with responsibility--weighted with the sense of his own importance to the world in general and to France in particular. Had he walked less noisily he might have overheard the soft laugh of the old priest.
Citizen Morot did not laugh. He was not a laughing man. But a fine, disdainful smile passed over his face, scarce lighting it up at all.
"What an utter fool the man is!" he said impatiently.
"Yes--sir," replied the old man, "but if he were less so it would be difficult to manage him."
"I am not sure. I always prefer to deal with knaves than with fools."
"That is because your Highness knows how to outwit them."
"No titles--my father," said the Citizen Morot quietly. "No titles here, if you please. Tell me, are you quite sure of this scum--this Lerac?"
"As sure as one can be of anything that comes from the streets. He is an excitable, bumptious, quarrelsome man; but he has a certain influence with those beneath him, although it seems hard to realise that there are such."
"Ha! you are right! But a republic is a social manure-heap--that which is on the top is not pleasant, and the stuff below--ugh!"
The manner of the two men had quite changed. He who was called Morot leant back in his seat and stretched his arms out wearily. There is no disguise like animation; when that is laid aside we see the real man or the real woman. In repose this Frenchman was not cheerful to look upon. He was not sanguine, and a French pessimist is the worst thing of the kind that is to be found.
When the door had closed behind the departing Lerac, the old priest seemed to throw off suddenly quite a number of years. His voice, when next he spoke, was less senile, his movements were brisker. He was, in a word, less harmless.
Mr. Jacquetot had finished his dinner, brought in from a neighbouring restaurant all hot, and was slumberously enjoying a very strong-smelling cigar, when the door of the little room opened at length, and the two men went out together into the dimly-lighted street.
CHAPTER III
WITHOUT REST
Half-way down Fleet Street, on the left-hand side, stands the church