“And is not pronounced in decided accents upon the cause of the human race,” put in the Italian, whispering.
“I do not write the political articles in Le Seas Commun,” answered Rameau; “and I suppose that our president is satisfied with them since he recommended me to the preference of the person who does. Have you more to say? Pardon me, my time is precious, for it does not belong to me.”
“Eno’!” said the Italian, “we will detain you no longer.” Here, with a bow and a smile, he glided towards the door.
“Confrere,” muttered the Pole, lingering, “you must have become very rich!—do not forget the wrongs of Poland—I am their Representative—I—speaking in that character, not as myself individually—I have not breakfasted!”
Rameau, too thoroughly Parisian not to be as lavish of his own money as he was envious of another’s, slipped some pieces of gold in the Pole’s hand. The Pole’s bosom heaved with manly emotion: “These pieces bear the effigies of the tyrant—I accept them as redeemed from disgrace by their uses to Freedom.”
“Share them with Signor Raselli in the name of the same cause,” whispered Rameau, with a smile he might have plagiarised from De Mauleon.
The Italian, whose ear was inured to whispers, heard and turned round as he stood at the threshold.
“No, confrere of France—no, confrere of Poland—I am Italian. All ways to take the life of an enemy are honourable—no way is honourable which begs money from a friend.”
An hour or so later, Rameau was driven in his comfortable coupe to the Faubourg du Temple.
Suddenly, at the angle of a street, his coachman was stopped—a rough-looking man appeared at the door—__"Descends, mon petit bourgeois__.” Behind the rough-looking man were menacing faces.