lenching his
fist. "The adventurer occupies the Pretender's house, the house of the
Stuarts.".... He repeated: "The house of the Stuarts!" and then lapsed
into a silence which the writer felt to be laden with more storminess
than his last denunciation. He did not emerge from his meditations until
ushered into the salon of the ci-devant jeweller, now a grand
seigneur--into one of the salons, rather, for there were five. There
Montfanon began to examine everything around him, with an air of such
contempt and pride that, notwithstanding his anxiety, Dorsenne could not
resist laughing and teasing him by saying:

"You will not pretend to say that there are no pretty things here? These
two paintings by Moroni, for example?"

"Nothing that is appropriate," replied Montfanon. "Yes, they are two
magnificent portraits of ancestors, and this man has no ancestors!....
There are some weapons in that cupboard, and he has never touched a
sword! And there is a piece of tapestry representing the miracles of the
loaves, which is a piece of audacity! You may not believe me, Dorsenne,
but it is making me ill to be here.... I am reminded of the human toil,
of the human soul in all these objects, and to end here, paid for how?
Owned by whom? Close your eyes and think of Schroeder and of the others
whom you do not know. Look into the hovels where there is neither
furniture, fire, nor bread. Then, open your eyes and look at this."

"And you, my dear friend," replied the novelist, "I conjure you to think
of our conversation in the catacombs, to think of the three ladies in
whose names I besought you to aid Florent."

"Thank you," said Montfanon, passing his hand over his brow, "I promise
you to be calm."

He had scarcely uttered those words when the door opened, disclosing to
view another room, lighted also, and which, to judge by the sound of
voices, contained several persons. No doubt Madame Steno and Alba,
thought Julien; and the Baron entered, accompanied by Peppino Ardea.
While going through the introductions, the writer was struck by the
contrast offered between his three companions. Hafner and Ardea in
evening dress, with buttonhole bouquets, had the open and happy faces of
two citizens who had clear consciences. The usually sallow complexion of
the business man was tinged with excitement, his eyes, as a rule so hard,
were gentler. As for the Prince, the same childish carelessness lighted
up his jovial face, while the hero of Patay,