of sacrifice? There is laughter in his blue
eyes, which attest his pure Germanic origin, and which light up his
face, one of those feudal faces such as one sees in the portraits hung
upon the walls of the priories of Malta, where plainness has race. A
thick, white moustache, in which glimmers a vague reflection of gold,
partly hides a scar which would give to that red face a terrible look
were it not for the expression of those eyes, in which there is fervor
mingled with merriment. For Montfanon is as fanatical on certain
subjects as he is genial and jovial on others. If he had the power he
would undoubtedly have Ribalta arrested, tried, and condemned within
twenty-four hours for the crime of free-thinking. Not having it, he
amused himself with him, so much the more so as the vanquished Catholic
and the discontented Socialists have several common hatreds. Even on
this particular morning we have seen with what indulgence he bore the
brusqueness of the old bookseller, at whom he gazed for ten minutes
without disconcerting him in the least. At length the revolutionist
seemed to have finished his epigram, for with a quiet smile he carefully
folded the sheet of paper, put it in a wooden box which he locked. Then
he turned around.

"What do you desire, Marquis?" he asked, without any further
preliminary.

"First of all, you will have to read me your poem, old redshirt," said
Montfanon, "which will only be my recompense for having awaited your
good pleasure more patiently than an ambassador. Let us see whom are you
abusing in those verses? Is it Don Ciccio or His Majesty? You will not
reply? Are you afraid that I shall denounce you at the Quirinal?"

"No flies enter a closed mouth," replied the old conspirator, justifying
the proverb by the manner in which he shut his toothless mouth, into
which, indeed, at that moment, neither a fly nor the tiniest grain of
dust could enter.

"An excellent saying," returned the Marquis, with a laugh, "and one I
should like to see engraved on the facade of all the modern parliaments.
But between your poetry and your adages have you taken the time to
write for me to that bookseller at Vienna, who owns the last copy of the
pamphlet on the trial of the bandit Hafner?"

"Patience," said the merchant. "I will write."

"And my document on the siege of Rome, by Bourbon, those three notarial
deeds which you promised me, have you dislodged them?"

"Patience, patience," repeated the merchant, a