The Reverend Father Agaric, surrendering to M. Bigourd’s reasons and recognising that the existing government could only be destroyed by one of its defenders, cast his eyes upon Emiral Chatillon. He asked a large sum of money from his friend, the Reverend Father Cornemuse, which the latter handed him with a sigh. And with this sum he hired six hundred butcher boys of Alca to run behind Chatillon’s horse and shout, “Hurrah for the Emiral!” Henceforth Chatillon could not take a single step without being cheered.
Viscountess Olive asked him for a private interview. He received her at the Admiralty[[9]] in a room decorated with anchors, shells, and grenades.
[9] Or better, Emiralty.
She was discreetly dressed in greyish blue. A hat trimmed with roses covered her pretty, fair hair. Behind her veil her eyes shone like sapphires. Although she came of Jewish origin there was no more fashionable woman in the whole nobility. She was tall and well shaped; her form was that of the year, her figure that of the season.
“Emiral,” said she, in a delightful voice, “I cannot conceal my emotion from you. . . . It is very natural . . . before a hero.”
“You are too kind. But tell me, Viscountess, what brings me the honour of your visit.”
“For a long time I have been anxious to see you, to speak to you. . . . So I very willingly undertook to convey a message to you.”
“Please take a seat.”
“How still it is here.”
“Yes, it is quiet enough.”