The Slave of the Lamp | Page 9

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 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