“He is not fit to conduct a journal,” replied Rameau, magniloquently, “who will not brave a danger for his body in defence of the right to infinity for his thought.”
“Bravo!” said Mrs. Morley, clapping her pretty hands. “That speech reminds me of home. The French are very much like the Americans in their style of oratory.”
“So,” said Louvier, “my old friend the Vicomte has come out as a writer, a politician, a philosopher; I feel hurt that he kept this secret from me despite our intimacy. I suppose you knew it from the first, M. Rameau?”
“No, I was as much taken by surprise as the rest of the world. You have long known M. de Mauleon?”
“Yes, I may say we began life together—that is, much at the same time.”
“What is he like in appearance?” asked Mrs. Morley. “The ladies thought him very handsome when he was young,” replied Louvier. “He is still a fine-looking man, about my height.”
“I should like to know him!” cried Mrs. Morley, “if only to tease that husband of mine. He refuses me the dearest of woman’s rights.—I can’t make him jealous.”
“You may have the opportunity of knowing this ci-devant Lovelace very soon,” said Rameau, “for he has begged me to present him to Mademoiselle Cicogna, and I will ask her permission to do so, on Thursday evening when she receives.”
Isaura, who had hitherto attended very listlessly to the conversation, bowed assent. “Any friend of yours will be welcome. But I own the articles signed in the name of Pierre Firmin do not prepossess me in favour of their author.”
“Why so?” asked Louvier; “surely you are not an Imperialist?”