“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.”
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.”
