The Slave of the Lamp | Page 8

it is not. You want to demonstrate that you are superior, and you
cannot do it. You say that you have as much right to walk on the
pavement as I. I admit it. In your heart you want to prove that you have
more, and you cannot do it. I could wear your blouse with comfort, but
you could not put on my hat or my gloves without making yourself
ridiculous. But--that is not the question. Let us get to business."
And in time the 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