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THE PRICE OF A LATE BREAKFAST

For men there is no such ladder to place and fame as their fellow-men.
Over their crushed and trampled backs, or with a hand in their pocket,
ambition or greed can climb to heights which would be hopelessly
unattainable but for the unwilling foothold of another's disadvantage.
La Mothe? Who the deuce was La Mothe? Beaufoy neither knew nor cared.
He had his first commission in his pocket, a good horse between his
knees, the warm sunshine of the May morning lapping him round with all
the subtle sweetness of the sweetest season of the year, and Valmy,
which hipped him horribly with its gloom, was behind his back. He was
almost as fully in fortune's pocket as Monsieur d'Argenton!

Nor was that all. There was even the hope that this poor devil of a La
Mothe might say, "No, thank you!" to the order for arrest, and so give
Paul Beaufoy opportunity to prove to the world at large, and the King
in particular, that Paul Beaufoy was not to be trifled with, that Paul
Beaufoy was as ready with his sword as clever with his head, and fit
for something much better than arresting poor devils accused of God
knows what. But that would be too great good fortune, and meanwhile
the world was all one warm, sensuous, golden, best of worlds, with just
one small fret to mar its perfection--he had had no breakfast! That
must be remedied, and the half hour's delay could be made good by
harder riding afterwards.

So, midway to Chateau-Renaud, at the junction of the St. Amand road, he
gave a little auberge his custom, comforting nature with an omelet
while a fowl was being put on the spit. But because custom such as
Paul Beaufoy's came that way but seldom the fowl was slow to come by,
yet slower to cook, and more time went to its eating than would have
been to Paul Beaufoy's advantage had the King known the excellence of
his appetite. But the King knew nothing and would know nothing, so no
one was hurt by the picking of the bones. The poor devil of a La Mothe
would naturally not object to the delay, and in any case a prick of the
spur would drag back some of the lost minutes.

Gaily he put his theory into practice, his heart as light as a bird on
the wing or the paper which was to consign this unknown poor devil of a
La Mothe to he neither knew nor cared what misfortune, and gallantly
the generous beast between his knees answered the call. But--surely
disjunctive conjunctions are the tragedies of the l