the first man to enter the room was clad in a blouse of coarse grey cloth which reached down to his knees. on his head he wore a black silk cap, very much pressed down and exceedingly greasy on the right side. this was to be accounted for by the fact that he used his right shoulder more than the left in that state of life in which he had been placed. it was not what we, who do not kill, would consider a pleasant state. he was, in fact, a slayer of beasts—a foreman at the slaughter-house.
it is, perhaps, fortunate that antoine lerac is of no great prominence in this record, and of none in his official capacity at the slaughter-house. but the man is worthy of some small attention, because he was so essentially of the nineteenth century—so distinctly a product of the latter end of what is, for us at least, the most important cycle of years the world has passed through. he was a man wearing the blouse with ostentation, and glorying in the greasy cap: professing his unwillingness to exchange the one for an ermine robe or the other for a crown. as a matter of fact, he invariably purchased the largest and roughest blouse to be found, and his cap was unnecessarily soaked with suet. he was a knight of industry of the very worst description—a braggart, a talker, a windbag. he preached, or rather he shrieked, the doctrine of equality, but the equality he sought was that which would place him on a par with his superiors, while in no way benefiting those beneath him.
at one time, when he had first come into contact with the dark-eyed man who now sat at the table watching him curiously, there had been a struggle for mastery.
“i am,” he had said with considerable heat, “as good as you. that is all i wish to demonstrate.”
“no,” replied the other with that calm and assured air of superiority which the people once tried in vain to stamp out with the guillotine. “no, 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 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 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.
