The Rafael Sabatini Megapack. Rafael Sabatini
best will always predominate, and such a nation will achieve greatly.”
“But do you account birth of no importance?”
“Of none, madame—or else my own might trouble me.” From the deep flush that stained her face, he feared that he had offended by what was almost an indelicacy. But the reproof that he was expecting did not come. Instead—
“And does it not?” she asked. “Never, Andre?”
“Never, madame. I am content.”
“You have never…never regretted your lack of parents’ care?”
He laughed, sweeping aside her sweet charitable concern that was so superfluous. “On the contrary, madame, I tremble to think what they might have made of me, and I am grateful to have had the fashioning of myself.”
She looked at him for a moment very sadly, and then, smiling, gently shook her head.
“You do not want self-satisfaction… Yet I could wish that you saw things differently, Andre. It is a moment of great opportunities for a young man of talent and spirit. I could help you; I could help you, perhaps, to go very far if you would permit yourself to be helped after my fashion.”
“Yes,” he thought, “help me to a halter by sending me on treasonable missions to Austria on the Queen’s behalf, like M. de Plougastel. That would certainly end in a high position for me.”
Aloud he answered more as politeness prompted. “I am grateful, madame. But you will see that, holding the ideals I have expressed, I could not serve any cause that is opposed to their realization.”
“You are misled by prejudice, Andre-Louis, by personal grievances. Will you allow them to stand in the way of your advancement?”
“If what I call ideals were really prejudices, would it be honest of me to run counter to them whilst holding them?”
“If I could convince you that you are mistaken! I could help you so much to find a worthy employment for the talents you possess. In the service of the King you would prosper quickly. Will you think of it, Andre-Louis, and let us talk of this again?”
He answered her with formal, chill politeness.
“I fear that it would be idle, madame. Yet your interest in me is very flattering, and I thank you. It is unfortunate for me that I am so headstrong.”
“And now who deals in insincerity?” she asked him.
“Ah, but you see, madame, it is an insincerity that does not mislead.”
And then M. de Kercadiou came in through the window again, and announced fussily that he must be getting back to Meudon, and that he would take his godson with him and set him down at the Rue du Hasard.
“You must bring him again, Quintin,” the Countess said, as they took their leave of her.
“Some day, perhaps,” said M. de Kercadiou vaguely, and swept his godson out.
In the carriage he asked him bluntly of what madame had talked.
“She was very kind—a sweet woman,” said Andre-Louis pensively.
“Devil take you, I didn’t ask you the opinion that you presume to have formed of her. I asked you what she said to you.”
“She strove to point out to me the error of my ways. She spoke of great things that I might do—to which she would very kindly help me—if I were to come to my senses. But as miracles do not happen, I gave her little encouragement to hope.”
“I see. I see. Did she say anything else?”
He was so peremptory that Andre-Louis turned to look at him.
“What else did you expect her to say, monsieur my godfather?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Then she fulfilled your expectations.”
“Eh? Oh, a thousand devils, why can’t you express yourself in a sensible manner that a plain man can understand without having to think about it?”
He sulked after that most of the way to the Rue du Hasard, or so it seemed to Andre-Louis. At least he sat silent, gloomily thoughtful to judge by his expression.
“You may come and see us soon again at Meudon,” he told Andre-Louis at parting. “But please remember—no revolutionary politics in future, if we are to remain friends.”
CHAPTER VI
POLITICIANS
One morning in August the academy in the Rue du Hasard was invaded by Le Chapelier accompanied by a man of remarkable appearance, whose herculean stature and disfigured countenance seemed vaguely familiar to Andre-Louis. He was a man of little, if anything, over thirty, with small bright eyes buried in an enormous face. His cheek-bones were prominent, his nose awry, as if it had been broken by a blow, and his mouth was rendered almost shapeless by the scars of another injury. (A bull had horned him in the face when he was but a lad.) As if that were not enough to render his appearance terrible, his cheeks were deeply pock-marked. He was dressed untidily in a long scarlet coat that descended almost to his ankles, soiled buckskin breeches and boots with reversed tops. His shirt, none too clean, was open at the throat, the collar hanging limply over an unknotted cravat, displaying fully the muscular neck that rose like a pillar from his massive shoulders. He swung a cane that was almost a club in his left hand, and there was a cockade in his biscuit-coloured, conical hat. He carried himself with an aggressive, masterful air, that great head of his thrown back as if he were eternally at defiance.
Le Chapelier, whose manner was very grave, named him to Andre-Louis.
“This is M. Danton, a brother-lawyer, President of the Cordeliers, of whom you will have heard.”
Of course Andre-Louis had heard of him. Who had not, by then?
Looking at him now with interest, Andre-Louis wondered how it came that all, or nearly all the leading innovators, were pock-marked. Mirabeau, the journalist Desmoulins, the philanthropist Marat, Robespierre the little lawyer from Arras, this formidable fellow Danton, and several others he could call to mind all bore upon them the scars of smallpox. Almost he began to wonder was there any connection between the two. Did an attack of smallpox produce certain moral results which found expression in this way?
He dismissed the idle speculation, or rather it was shattered by the startling thunder of Danton’s voice.
“This—Chapelier has told me of you. He says that you are a patriotic—.”
More than by the tone was Andre-Louis startled by the obscenities with which the Colossus did not hesitate to interlard his first speech to a total stranger. He laughed outright. There was nothing else to do.
“If he has told you that, he has told you more than the truth! I am a patriot. The rest my modesty compels me to disavow.”
“You’re a joker too, it seems,” roared the other, but he laughed nevertheless, and the volume of it shook the windows. “There’s no offence in me. I am like that.”
“What a pity,” said Andre-Louis.
It disconcerted the king of the markets. “Eh? what’s this, Chapelier? Does he give himself airs, your friend here?”
The spruce Breton, a very petit-maitre in appearance by contrast with his companion, but nevertheless of a down-right manner quite equal to Danton’s in brutality, though dispensing with the emphasis of foulness, shrugged as he answered him:
“It is merely that he doesn’t like your manners, which is not at all surprising. They are execrable.”
“Ah, bah! You are all like that, you—Bretons. Let’s come to business. You’ll have heard what took place in the Assembly yesterday? You haven’t? My God, where do you live? Have you heard that this scoundrel who calls himself King of France gave passage across French soil the other day to Austrian troops going to crush