and the appeal of her youth. He was troubled.
'The Citizen Chabot is a great man in the State, child,' he said, scarcely knowing what he meant.
'What has that to do with it? If he were the King himself, it would make no difference to me.'
'I believe it, mademoiselle.' He, too, forgot the rule under which they lived. Very gently he added, 'You are not answerable to me for your actions.'
She looked up at him shyly. Then her eyelids fluttered and her soft brown eyes were lowered again. 'I wanted you to know, Monsieur Moreau.'
He had never felt more utterly at a loss. Chabot's voice sounded, loud and crowing, behind them on the stairs. She fled in terror, to vanish again amid the laurels. André-Louis in thankfulness for the interruption went swiftly on.
Outside the wicket the Baron awaited him, and greeted him with a searching look.
'It is not only politics that brings you to the Rue d'Anjou, mon petit,' he asserted, his tone sardonic.
André-Louis, the eyes of his soul at that moment on the fair image of Aline de Kercadiou, answered him impatiently.
'You mistake me. I am not given to banalities. The child may have sensed it in me. What do I know?' He was out of temper. 'Lengthen your stride,' he added harshly. 'That beast Chabot is behind. He comes with a bursting belly to admonish starveling patriots to tighten their belts for the greater glory of this famine-stricken Republic.'
'You're bitter in your triumph.'
'Triumph! A triumph of foulness over foulness! Those odious, oily Jews with their greed and their hypocrisy! Chabot, the convent-rat! Delaunay ready to sell his country that he may purchase him his woman. And we, fawning upon them, that we may fool them to their doom.'
'If they are as foul as you perceive them, your conscience should be easy on that score. Besides, there is an end to serve, a cause to be upheld, which justifies any means.'
'It is what I ask myself.'
'Name of God, what ails you? Hitherto your calculating ruthlessness has almost terrified me at moments. Are you weakening?'
'Weakening?' André-Louis made a rapid examination of conscience. 'No. I grow impatient. Impatient for the day that sends the pack of them to the National Barber.'
'Faith, then, you have but to proceed as you are doing. The day is not far distant.'
CHAPTER XXVII
MATCHMAKING
The Citizen-Representative François Chabot strutted into his sordid lodgings in the Rue Saint-Honoré with the sense of being by much a greater man than when he had left it that morning to repair to the Convention. He felt, indeed, like some lesser Atlas bearing the French Nation upon his shoulders.
Godlike and truculent, he came into those shabby two rooms and the presence of Julie Berger. The one and the other offended him. Here was an incongruous Olympus, an incongruous goddess. He spurned her fawning greeting and stamped into the middle of the sordid room to survey it with the eyes of scorn.
'May God damn me,' was precisely what he said ('Que Dieu me damne'), 'if I will support this longer.'
'What offends you, my cherished one?' quoth the cross-eyed in conciliatory accents. Although a scold by nature, here instinct warned her scolding would be out of season.
'What offends me? To the devil with it all, I say!' His left hand on his hip, his head thrown back, he made a sweeping comprehensive gesture with his free right arm. 'To the devil with it all! And to the devil with you! Do you know who I am? François Chabot, Deputy for Loir-et-Cher in the National Convention, the wonder of the intellectuals, the idol of the people, the greatest man in France at this moment. And you ask me who I am!'
'I did not ask you, my love,' she protested mildly, perceiving that his attack of egomania was unusually violent, and perceiving also that he was not quite sober. 'I know who you are. I know what a great man you are. Do I not know it?'
'Oh, you do?' He eyed the ponderous, sagging body, so shabby in its faded black, the pallid face that was robbed of comeliness by its squint; he became conscious of the grime upon it, of the horrid, ill-kempt condition of the brown hair, wisps of which thrust untidily from her capacious mob-cap. There was almost dislike of her in that glance of his. 'Then, if you know it, how can you suffer that I should continue in these surroundings? Is this a dwelling for a representative of the sacred people! These broken shards, this common furniture, this filthy, uncarpeted floor! All this detracts from the dignity of my office. I owe it to myself and to the people whom I represent to house myself in dignity.'
She tittered venomously. 'Why, so you do, my friend. But dignity costs money.'
'Money? What is money?'
'Filth, so you say. But it's useful filth. It brings the things you lack and I lack. What is the use of being a great man? What's the use of having people run after you in the street, point you out to one another, and shout, "Long Live Chabot"? What's the use of all this, my cherished one, when we have no money, when we live like pigs in a sty?'
'Who says I have no money?' He snorted furiously. 'Money! I have all the money a man desires. It is at my command. I have but to put forth my hand and take it.'
'In the name of God, then, put forth your hand. Let me behold this miracle.'
'It is done. Mine is the purse of Fortunatus, the hand of Midas.'
'Whose purse?' quoth she, wondering had madness this time gone too far for recovery.
He paced the chamber, his chin in the air, his gestures like those of an actor at the Théâtre Français. He talked volubly, boasted freely. He owned a fleet in the Mediterranean; the resources of the bank of the brothers Frey were at his command. He must be better housed than this, better clothed, better ... He broke off. He had been about to say better accompanied, but a timely remembrance of her potentialities in venom checked him.
Yet, although he did not utter the word, she sensed it, and her smile changed. It grew bitter and cunning. She sat down to observe him. Then she uttered words that administered a cold douche to his exaltation, and brought him to a panic-stricken halt.
'So the Freys have bribed you, eh? They've paid you well to get a repeal of the decree against their corsairs. Behold your fleet, my friend.'
His eyes stood forward on his face. He made a noise like the inarticulate growl of a beast. For a moment she cowered in terror, believing that he was about to leap upon her. This, indeed, was his impulse: to strangle that vile throat of hers so that never again should it utter such a blasphemy. But prudence mastered rage. How much did this woman know?
'What's that you say, Jezebel?'
'What I know.' She laughed at him, perceiving herself safe again. 'What I know. Do you suppose that I can't read because I am cross-eyed, or do you suppose my education was neglected?'
'Read? What have you read?'
'The speech that was written for you by somebody; the Freys belike. Ha, ha! You'd like the people to know that, wouldn't you? That those foreign Jews put words into your mouth so that you may seduce the representatives and the people; and that they pay you for the dirty job. A patriot, you! You! The greatest man in France, the wonder of the intellectuals, the idol of the people! You!' The scold's nature had come uppermost. Malice poured from her in a foul torrent of mockery.
'Silence, harridan!' He was livid. But she saw that he was no longer dangerous. Pusillanimous she knew him, this woman from whom he had no secrets, and she saw how fear was sobering and subduing him.
'I'll not be silent! Not I. Why should I be silent?'
'Because if I have more of this, I'll fling you back into the street from which I took you.'
'So