JOEL AND NEROWEG.
Marik Lebrenn had been taken by order of the Count of Plouernel into a
richly furnished salon. From the walls hung a number of family
portraits.
Some wore the cuirass of knights, others the white cross and red cloak
of the Templars, others the civilian dress of noblemen, still others the
ermine of a peer of France, or the purple of the Princes of the Church.
It was likewise with the women. They wore monastic garbs, and court
costumes. But, whether it was that each painter had scrupulously
reproduced nature, or that they yielded to the requirements of a family
who held it a point of honor to make manifest an uninterrupted racial
affiliation in their line of descent, the generic type of the several
faces was reproduced in all. Some in beauty, others in ugliness, all by
the marked distance between the eyes, together with the pronounced hook
of the nose, recalled the bird of prey. Similarly, what by common accord
has been called the Bourbon type, which bears some resemblance to the
ovine breed, is visibly perpetuated in the house of the Capets.
Similarly, also, almost all the descendants of the house of Rohan had,
it is said, an erect tuft of hair that was long spoken of as the Rohan
crest.
As with almost all ancient family paintings, the Plouernel coat-of-arms
and the name of the original represented in the picture were designed in
a corner of the canvas. For instance, there were the names of Gonthram
V, Sire of Plouernel; Gonthram IX, Count of Plouernel; Hildeberta, Lady
of Plouernel; Meroflede, Abbess of Meriadek in Plouernel; and so on, the
names of the descendants, men and women, of the Plouernel lineage.
As he contemplated these family portraits Marik Lebrenn experienced a
singular mixture of curiosity, bitterness, and sentiments rather sad
than wrathful. He moved from one to the other of the portraits as if
they awakened a thousand memories within him. His eyes would rest
meditatively upon the motionless faces, mute as those of specters.
Several of the personages seemed to draw his attention violently. One of
them, evidently painted from indications or traditions transmitted
subsequent to the date--the year 297--that the portrait bore, must have
been the founder of this old house. The corner of the canvas bore the
name _Gonthram Neroweg_.
This personage was of colossal stature. His copper-red hair, combed back
Chinese style and held together on the top of his head with a gold band,
fell backward over his shoulders like the plume of a helmet. His cheeks
and chin were closely shaven, but a long moustache, as red as his hair,
drooped down to his chest, which was tattooed in blue and was partly
covered by a species of plaid or mantle barred yellow and red. A more
savage and ferocious face than that of this first of the Nerowegs can
not be easily imagined.
Undoubtedly, at the sight of this portrait, cruel thoughts agitated the
linendraper. After long contemplating it Marik Lebrenn could not refrain
from shaking his fist at him. It was an involuntary and childish
gesture, that he quickly felt ashamed of.
The second portrait that likewise seemed to impress the linendraper
keenly represented a woman clad in monastic garb. The picture bore the
date of 729, and the name of Meroflede, Abbess of Meriadek in Plouernel.
It seemed a singular detail, but this woman held, in one hand, an
abbatial crosier, and, in the other, a naked and bloodstained sword,
meant, undoubtedly, to convey the idea that the weapon did not always
rest inactive in its sheath. The woman was handsome, but of a haughty
and sinister beauty, a beauty that betrayed a violent temperament. Her
features bore the stamp of that lassitude that excesses leave in their
train. Her head was enveloped in long white and black veils. Her large
grey-green eyes sparkled under their thick red brows. Her blood-red lips
expressed at once wickedness and sensuousness. Finally, the crosier and
the bloody sword in the hands of an abbess imparted to the portrait a
weird, almost shocking appearance.
Lebrenn contemplated the image with disgust and horror, and muttered to
himself:
"Oh, Meroflede! Noble Abbess, consecrated by Satan! Messalina and
Fredegonde were immaculate virgins beside you, Marshal Retz a lamb, and
his infamous castle a sanctuary beside your damnable cloister!"
Emitting a sigh of sorrow and raising his eyes to heaven as if invoking
its mercy for the victims of Meroflede, he exclaimed:
"Poor Septimine! And you--ill-starred Broute-Saule!"
Lebrenn turned away his head in sadness, and long remained pensive. When
he again raised his eyes they fell upon another portrait. That one was
dated 1237. It represented a warrior with close-clipped hair, a long red
beard, and armed cap-a-pie. From his shoulders hung the red cloak with
the white cross of the Crusaders.
"Ah!" came from the linendraper with a fresh gesture of disgust and
indignation--"the _Red Monk_!"
And he passed his hand over his eyes as if to drive away the hideous
vision.
Soon, however, Lebrenn's face brightened up. He heaved a sigh of relief,
as if pleasant thoughts had succeeded the painful ones of just before.
His eyes rested delighted, almost moved with affection upon a portrait
dated 1463, and bearing the name of Gonthram XII, Sire of Plouernel.
This portrait represented a young man of thirty years of age. He was
clad in black velvet and wore the gold collar of the Order of St.
Michael. A more sympathetic face it would be difficult to conceive. The
looks, and the smile that flitted over the lips of this personage, were
expressive of touching melancholy.
"Oh!" said Lebrenn, "the sight of this one rests my mind--calms
it--consoles it. Thanks to God, he is not the only one who fell short of
the hereditary wickedness of his stock!"
Lebrenn's meditations were interrupted by the entrance of the Count of
Plouernel.
Lebrenn was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he started at the
entrance of the Count into the hall. Despite his self-control, the
linendraper, the descendant of Joel, whose family had, across the ages,
so often encountered that of Neroweg in deadly feud, could not help
betraying a certain degree of emotion at finding himself face to face
with a descendant of this ancient family. Moreover, it should be stated
that Lebrenn had been informed by Jeanike of the colonel's frequent
peering through the glass windows of his shop. Nevertheless, so far from
seeming concerned or irritated, Lebrenn assumed an air of naive and
embarrassed simplicity, which the Count of Plouernel attributed to the
respectful deference that he would naturally inspire in a resident of
St. Denis Street.
The Count, accordingly, addressed the merchant in an accent of
patronizing familiarity, pointing him to an easychair, while he let
himself down in another.
"Oh, monsieur," said Lebrenn, bowing clumsily, "indeed, you do me great
honor--"
"Come, come; no ceremonies, my dear sir," interjected the Count, and he
added interrogatingly; "my dear monsieur--Lebrenn--I believe?"
"Lebrenn," answered the merchant, with a bow. "Lebrenn, at your
service."
"Very good. I yesterday had the pleasure of seeing Madam Lebrenn, and of
mentioning to her a large order I have for linen goods for my regiment."
"Very happy, indeed, we are, monsieur, that you have honored our poor
shop with your custom. I came to learn from you how many meters of linen
you want, and of what quality. I have here some samples with me," he
added, affecting to be busily engaged rummaging in his coat pockets
after the samples. "Will it please you to choose--I shall give you the
price, monsieur--the exact price--the lowest figure--"
"That's not necessary, dear Monsieur Lebrenn. I can tell you in a few
words what I want. I have four hundred and fifty dragoons. I want a
supply of four hundred and fifty shirts for them, of good quality. I
also wish you to attend to the sewing. Your price shall be mine. You
see, dear Monsieur Lebrenn, that I know you to be the very cream of
honesty."
"Oh, monsieur!"
"The flower of linendrapers."
"Monsieur, monsieur, you embarrass me. I do not deserve--"
"You do not deserve! Come, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn; on the contrary,
you deserve that, and a good deal more."
"Monsieur, I shall hot venture to contradict you. When will you want the
shirts?" asked the merchant, rising. "If the matter is urgent, the labor
will come somewhat higher."
"Do me the favor, first of all, to resume your seat, my good man! Do
not take your leave from me so abruptly. I may have some other orders
for you."
"Monsieur, in obedience to your orders I shall sit down again. When will
you want the order filled?"
"Toward the end of next month."
"In that case, monsieur, the four hundred and fifty shirts, of good
quality, will cost seven francs apiece."
"Very well, upon my honor! That's cheap, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn. That
is a compliment that, I suppose, is not often heard from a purchaser,
hey?"
"No, it is not at all frequent; that's true, monsieur. But you mentioned
some other orders."
"Zounds, my good man! You do not take your eyes from the cards. Your
thoughts run to solid business."
"Eh! Eh! monsieur, one is a merchant in order to sell--"
"And are you selling much these days?"
"Hem--hem--so so, indifferently--"
"Indeed? Only so so? Well, so much the worse, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn!
That must go against your grain--because I presume you have a family to
maintain?"
"You are very considerate, monsieur. I have a son."
"And are you bringing him up to be your successor?"
"That's it, monsieur! He attends the Central School of Commerce."
"How old is the fine fellow? You have only one son, my dear Monsieur
Lebrenn?"
"Begging your pardon for contradicting you, I also have a daughter."
"A daughter also! The dear Lebrenn! If she at all looks like her mother
she must be a charming girl--"
"Eh! Eh!--she is slender--she is comely--"
"You must be proud of her. Come, confess it!"
"Zounds! I do not deny it, monsieur. More than that I can not say."
"Strange," thought the Count of Plouernel to himself, "the fellow has a
curiously old-fashioned style of expression. It must be something
peculiar to St. Denis Street. He puts me in mind of my old steward
Robert, who brought me up, and who spoke like the people of the previous
century."
The Count proceeded aloud:
"Forsooth! Coming to think of it, I should pay a visit to dear Madam
Lebrenn."
"Monsieur, she is at your service."
"You should know that I contemplate giving a tournament soon in the
large yard of my barracks, where my dragoons are to go through all
manner of exercises on horseback. You must promise me to come some
Sunday to the rehearsal with Madam Lebrenn; and I wish you to accept,
without any compliments, a little collation after we leave the place."
"Oh, monsieur, that's too much honor to us--you overwhelm me--"
"Never mind that; you are joking; is it agreed?"
"May I bring my boy along?"
"Zounds! Of course!"
"And also my daughter?"
"How can you put such a question to me, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn?"
"Indeed, monsieur? You won't object if my daughter--"
"Better still! I have an idea, my dear man; an excellent idea!"
"What is it, monsieur?"
"Did you ever hear of the tourneys of olden days?"
"Tourneys, monsieur?"
"Yes, in the days of chivalry."
"I beg your pardon, monsieur; plain people like us--"
"Well, dear Monsieur Lebrenn, in the days of chivalry, tourneys were
held, and at those tourneys several of my ancestors, whom you see
there," and he waved his hand towards the pictures, "took a hand."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the merchant, affecting great surprise, and
following with his eyes in the direction pointed by the colonel, "I was
thinking to myself, there is something of a family resemblance."
"You think so?"
"I do, monsieur--I beg your pardon for the great liberty--"
"Don't begin apologizing again! For God's sake, be not so very formal at
all points, my dear man! As I was saying, at those tourneys there always
was what was called a _Queen of Beauty_. She distributed the prizes to
the victors. Now, then, that shall be the role for your charming
daughter. She shall be the Queen of Beauty at the tournament that I am
about to give--she will be well worthy of the distinction."
"Oh, monsieur! That is too much! Oh, it is too much! Moreover, do you
not think that for a young girl--to be in that way--in plain
view--vis-a-vis to messieurs your dragoons--is a little--I beg your
pardon for the great liberty--but it is a little--what shall I say?--a
little--"
"Dismiss all such scruples, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn. The noblest dames
were in olden days chosen as the Queens of Beauty at the tourney. They
even gave a kiss to the victor, on his mouth."
"I understand that--they were accustomed thereto--while my daughter--you
see--confound it!--she is only eighteen, and has been brought up--like a
bourgeois girl."
"You need not feel uneasy on that score. I never thought for a moment
that your daughter should give the victor a kiss."
"That is good, monsieur! How kind you are! And if you will also consent
that my daughter do not embrace--"
"That goes without saying, my dear monsieur. You do not need my consent.
I am too happy, as it is, to have you and also your family, accept my
invitation."
"Oh, monsieur, all the honor is on our side!"
"Not at all, it is on my side!"
"Surely not! Surely not, monsieur! You are too kind! I can clearly see
that you mean to bestow great honor upon us."
"Well, have it your way, my good man! There are faces like yours--that
charm one on the spot. Besides, I found you to be so honest a man in
the matter of the price of the shirts--"
"It is only a matter of conscience, monsieur. Only a matter of
conscience."
"That I said to myself on the spot--This Monsieur Lebrenn must be an
admirable, an honest man. I would like to be pleasant to him--even to
oblige him, if I can."
"Oh, monsieur, I know not how to express to you--"
"Come, you told me a minute ago that business was poor--would you like
me to pay you in advance for my order?"
"Oh, no, no, no, monsieur; that is unnecessary."
"Do not be bashful! Be frank. The amount is large--I shall give you an
order upon my banker."
"I assure you, monsieur, that I do not need payment in advance."
"Times are so hard yet."
"Very hard, indeed, the times are; that's true, monsieur; we must hope
for better."
"Admit it, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn," said the Count, again pointing to
the pictures that ornamented the walls of the salon, "the times in which
those redoubtable seigneurs lived, were the real good times!"
"Truly so, monsieur."
"And who knows! Perhaps those better times may come back again!"
"Indeed! Do you think so?"
"Some other day we shall talk politics--I suppose you talk politics,
occasionally?"
"Monsieur, I do not indulge myself so far. You understand, a merchant--"
"Oh, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn! You are a man of the good old pattern;
that's what you are; I'm glad of it! Right you are not to meddle in
politics! It is the silly mania that spoiled everything. In those good
old times, that I was speaking about to you, nobody grumbled. The King,
the clergy and the nobility ordered--and everybody obeyed without saying
a word."
"Sure! Sure! It must have been very convenient, monsieur."
"Zounds! I should say so!"
"If I understand you rightly, monsieur, the King, the priests and the
seigneurs said: 'Do that!'--and it was done?"
"Just so!"
"Pay!--and people paid?"
"Exactly."
"Go!--and people went?"
"Why! Yes! Yes!"
"In short, everything as on the parade ground--to the right!--to the
left!--forward!--double quick! People did not even have the trouble to
will this or that? The King, the seigneurs and the clergy took to
themselves the trouble of willing for us? And they have changed that!
They have changed all that!!!"
"Fortunately we need not despair, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn."
"May the good God hear you!" said the merchant, rising and bowing
respectfully to the Count. "Monsieur, to command."
"So, then, next Sunday--at the tournament. You will come, my good
fellow--you--your family--agreed?"
"Certainly, monsieur, certainly. My daughter will not fail to attend the
festivity--seeing she is to be the queen of--of?"
"Queen of Beauty, my dear fellow! It is not I who assign the role to
her--it is Nature!"
"Oh, monsieur, if you would only allow me--"
"What?"
"To repeat in your name to my daughter the gallantries that you have
uttered about her."
"Why, my dear fellow, not only do I authorize you to do so, but I
request you. Moreover, without further ceremony, I shall myself carry to
Madam Lebrenn and her charming daughter the invitation that I extend to
them."
"Oh, monsieur--the poor women--they will feel so flattered by your good
will towards us. I shall say nothing about myself; if I were to receive
the Cross of Honor I could not feel prouder."
"You are a first class fellow, my dear Lebrenn!"
"Your servant, monsieur, your servant with all my heart," repeated the
merchant, moving away.
The moment, however, that the linendraper reached the door, he seemed to
change his mind, scratched himself behind the ear, and returned to the
Count of Plouernel.
"Well, my dear fellow?" asked the Count, rather astonished at his
return. "What is the matter?"
"The matter is," said the merchant, continuing to scratch the back of
his ear, "meseems a thought strikes me--I beg your pardon for the great
liberty--"
"Zounds! Speak up! Why should you not have an idea--as well as anybody
else?"
"That's true, monsieur, it sometimes happens that the common people,
like the noble folks, do not _desiderate_--ideas."
"Do not _desiderate_--what the devil does that word mean? I do not
remember ever to have heard it."
"It is a good, square, old word, monsieur, which means _to lack_.
Moliere often uses it."
"How, Moliere!" exclaimed the astonished Count. "Do you read Moliere, my
good fellow? Indeed, I did notice, while you were speaking, that you
often used old turns of expression."
"I shall tell you why, monsieur: When I noticed that you spoke to me in
the style that Don Juan uses to Monsieur Dimanche, or Dorante to
Monsieur Jourdain--"
"What are you driving at?" put in the Count of Plouernel, more and more
taken aback, and beginning to suspect that the merchant was not quite so
simple as he seemed. "What do you mean?"
"Well," proceeded Lebrenn in his tone of bantering simplicity, "well,
when I noticed that, then, in order to reciprocate the honor that you
were doing me, monsieur, I, in turn, assumed the language of Monsieur
Dimanche, or of Monsieur Jourdain--I beg your pardon for my great
liberty--and meseems, according to what little judgment I have,
monsieur, meseems you would not greatly object to taking my daughter for
your mistress--"
"What!" cried the Count, utterly disconcerted by this brusque
apostrophe. "I do not know--I do not understand what you mean--"
"Oh, monsieur! I am but a plain man--I can only speak as my little
judgment dictates."
"Your little judgment! It serves you very poorly. Upon my honor, you are
crazy! Your idea lacks common sense."
"Indeed? Oh, well, so much the better! I said to myself, follow closely,
if you please, my plain way of reasoning--I said to myself: I am a good
bourgeois of St. Denis Street; I sell linen; I have a handsome daughter;
a young seigneur--because it does seem we are returning to the days of
young seigneurs--has seen my daughter; he covets her; he gives me a
large order; he adds offers of service, and, under the pretext--"
"Monsieur Lebrenn--there are jokes I do not tolerate from people!"
"I agree--but follow closely my plain way of reasoning, if you please,
monsieur: The young seigneur, I said to myself, proposes to give a
tournament in honor of my daughter's pretty eyes, and to come frequently
to see us, all with the only end in view, by thus playing the good
Prince, to succeed in seducing my child."
"Monsieur," cried the Count, growing purple with vexation and rage, "by
what right do you allow yourself to impute such intentions to me?"
"That's well, monsieur; I call that speaking to the point. You would
not, is it not true? scheme a plot that is not only so unworthy, but so
supremely ridiculous?"
"Enough, monsieur, enough!"
"Good! Good! You did not--I shall suppose you did not, and I feel better
at ease. Otherwise, you see, I would have been compelled to say to you,
humbly, respectfully, as becomes poor people of my class: Pardon me, my
young seigneur, for the great freedom that I am taking, but you see, the
daughters of the good bourgeois are not to be seduced in that way. Since
about fifty years ago, that sort of thing can no longer be done, not at
all, absolutely not. Monsieur Duke, or Monsieur Marquis still calls the
bourgeois, men and women, of St. Denis Street rather familiarly _dear
Monsieur Thing_, _dear Madam Thing_, looking, with habitual race
conceit, upon the bourgeoisie as an inferior species. But, zounds! To go
further than that would no longer be prudent! The bourgeois of St. Denis
Street are no longer afraid, as once they were, of _lettres de cachet_
to the Bastille. And if Monsieur Duke, or Monsieur Marquis took it into
his head to be discourteous to them--to them or to their family--bless
my soul! the bourgeois of St. Denis Street might bestow a thorough
drubbing--pardon me, monsieur, for this great freedom--I said, might
administer a thorough drubbing to Monsieur Marquis or Monsieur
Duke--even if he were of royal or imperial lineage."
"'Sdeath, monsieur!" ejaculated the colonel, hardly able to restrain his
anger, and turning pale with rage. "Are you making threats to me?"
"No, monsieur," calmly answered Lebrenn, dropping his tone of banter and
proceeding in firm and dignified accents; "no, monsieur; it is not a
threat, it is a lesson I am giving you."
"A lesson!" cried the Count of Plouernel, furious with rage. "A lesson!
to me!"
"Monsieur, despite all your race prejudice, you are a man of
honor--swear to me upon your honor that, in endeavoring to introduce
yourself into my house, that in tendering your services to me, it was
not your intention to seduce my daughter! Yes, swear to that upon your
honor, and, admitting my mistake, I shall retract all I said."
Thrown out of countenance by the alternative offered to him, the Count
of Plouernel blushed, lowered his eyes before the steady gaze of the
linendraper, and remained silent.
"Oh!" said the linendraper sorrowfully, as if musing to himself, but
loud enough to be heard by the Count of Plouernel. "They are
incorrigible; they have forgotten nothing, learned nothing; we still are
in their estimation a vanquished, conquered, subject race!"
"Monsieur!"
"Well, monsieur! I know my ground! No longer do we live in the days
when, after having violated my daughter, you would have ordered me
whipped with switches, and hanged afterwards before the gate of your
castle, as was the practice in former centuries--and as was done to one
of my own ancestors by that seigneur yonder--"
Saying this Lebrenn pointed at one of the portraits that hung from the
wall, to the profound astonishment of the Count of Plouernel.
"The matter looked quite simple to you," the merchant proceeded, "the
notion of taking my daughter for your mistress. I am no longer your
slave, your serf, your vassal, your chattel; playing the good Prince,
you graciously condescended to have me take a chair, and you even
addressed me patronizingly--'Dear Monsieur Lebrenn.' There are Counts no
longer, still you carry your title and the coat-of-arms of a Count.
Civil equality has been declared, and yet nothing would seem more
monstrous to you than to marry your daughter or your sister to a
bourgeois or a mechanic, whatever their worthiness and the honorable
character that they might bear. Would you dare to gainsay my words? No;
you might, perhaps, cite some exception, it would be but a fresh proof
that such unions remain misalliances in your eyes. Trifles, you may say;
they certainly are trifles--but what a grave symptom the attaching of so
much importance to trifles is! You and yours, were you to become
all-powerful in the nation to-morrow, would fatedly and necessarily, as
happened under the Restoration, seek by little and little to
re-establish your ancient privileges, which, from being trivial, would
then become hateful, disgraceful and oppressive to us, as they were for
centuries hateful, disgraceful and oppressive to our ancestors."
So stupefied was the Count of Plouernel at the transformation of the
bearing, tone and language of the linendraper that he did not interrupt
him. Assuming finally an air of haughtiness he replied ironically:
"I doubt not, monsieur, that the moral of the beautiful lesson in
history which you have had the kindness to read to me in your capacity
of linendraper probably is that the priests and nobles should be sent to
the lamp-post--as was the fashion in the good old days of 1793, and our
daughters and sisters married to the nearest valet at hand."
"Oh, monsieur," said the merchant in a tone of lofty sorrow, "let us not
mention reprisals. Forget what your fathers suffered during those
ominous years--I, on my part, will forget what our ancestors suffered,
at the hands of yours, and, not during a _few years_, but during FIFTEEN
CENTURIES OF TORMENT! Marry your daughters and sisters as it may please
you, it is your right; believe in misalliances, that is your affair.
These are facts that I mention; and, as a symptom, I repeat it, they are
grave; they prove that, in your estimation, there are and ever will be
two distinct races in the land."
"And supposing it is so, monsieur, what business is it of yours how we
look upon things?"
"The devil! It is very much our business, monsieur. _The Holy Alliance,
the divine and absolute right of Kings, the clerical party, aristocracy
by birth and omnipotent in the nation_--these are the inevitable
consequences of the opinion that there are two races, a superior and an
inferior one, one made to rule, the other to obey, and suffer. You asked
what was the moral of this lesson in history? It is this, monsieur," the
merchant proceeded: "Being jealous of the liberties that our fathers
conquered at the price of their blood and their martyrdom;--seeing we
do not wish to be treated any longer as a conquered race; I in my
capacity of an elector vote against your party so long as it remains
upon the field of legality; but when, as happened in 1830, your party
leaves the field of legality with the end in view of reducing us back to
arbitrary and clerical rule, that is to say, to the system that obtained
before 1789--that moment I go out into the street, and fire bullets into
your party."
"And it returns the compliment to yours."
"Very true--my arm was broken in 1830 by a Swiss ball. But, monsieur,
listen to reason: Why should there be feud, ever feud, ever bloodshed,
useful blood poured out by both sides? Why ever dream of a past that is
no more, and can nevermore be? You vanquished, despoiled, dominated,
exploited and tortured us fifteen centuries at a stretch! Have you not
had enough? Do we contemplate oppressing you, in turn? No, no, a
thousand times no! Liberty has cost us too dear to conquer; we prize it
too highly to seek to deprive others of it. It is not our fault, it is
yours; since 1789 your foreign alliances, civil war instigated by
yourselves, your constant attempts at counter-revolution, your intimate
relations with the clerical party--all that keeps thoughtful people in
alarm and afflicts them, while it irritates and exasperates the men of
action. I ask you again--what does it boot? Has mankind ever
retrograded? No, monsieur, never. You can, no one questions that, do
mischief; much mischief; but your divine right and your privileges are
done for. Let your party learn that lesson. You would then save the
nation, and yourself, perhaps, who knows what new disasters, because, I
tell you, the future belongs to democracy."
The linendraper's voice and accent were so impressive that, although not
convinced, the Count of Plouernel was touched by his words. His
indomitable race pride struggled with his impulse to acknowledge to the
merchant that he at least saw in him a generous adversary.
That moment the door was abruptly thrown open by an officer, the
major-adjutant of the Count's regiment, who, rushing in, hastily made
the military salute and said hurriedly:
"I beg your pardon, colonel, for coming in without being announced, but
orders have just been issued to have the regiment mount horse forthwith,
and remain ready for action on the square of the quarter."
The linendraper was about to leave the salon when the Count of Plouernel
said to him:
"Well, monsieur, to judge by the course things are taking, together with
your republican opinions, it is quite possible that I may have the honor
of meeting you to-morrow on a barricade."
"I know not what may happen, monsieur," answered the linendraper; "but I
neither fear nor desire such an encounter."
And then, with a smile, he added:
"I think, monsieur, that the order for linen may be canceled."
"I think so, too, monsieur," replied the colonel, bowing stiffly to
Lebrenn, who left the salon.