CHAPTER VIII. ARCADES AMBO
“That is the way we conduct our affairs, citizen,” said Heron gruffly, as he once more led his guest back into his office.
It was his turn to be complacent now. De Batz, for once in his life cowed by what he had seen, still wore a look of horror and disgust upon his florid face.
“What devils you all are!” he said at last.
“We are good patriots,” retorted Heron, “and the tyrant’s spawn leads but the life that hundreds of thousands of children led whilst his father oppressed the people. Nay! what am I saying? He leads a far better, far happier life. He gets plenty to eat and plenty of warm clothes. Thousands of innocent children, who have not the crimes of a despot father upon their conscience, have to starve whilst he grows fat.”
The leer in his face was so evil that once more de Batz felt that eerie feeling of terror creeping into his bones. Here were cruelty and bloodthirsty ferocity personified to their utmost extent. At thought of the Bourbons, or of all those whom he considered had been in the past the oppressors of the people, Heron was nothing but a wild and ravenous beast, hungering for revenge, longing to bury his talons and his fangs into the body of those whose heels had once pressed on his own neck.
And de Batz knew that even with millions or countless money at his command he could not purchase from this carnivorous brute the life and liberty of the son of King Louis. No amount of bribery would accomplish that; it would have to be ingenuity pitted against animal force, the wiliness of the fox against the power of the wolf.
Even now Heron was darting savagely suspicious looks upon him.
“I shall get rid of the Simons,” he said; “there’s something in that woman’s face which I don’t trust. They shall go within the next few hours, or as soon as I can lay my hands upon a better patriot than that mealy-mouthed cobbler. And it will be better not to have a woman about the place. Let me see—to-day is Thursday, or else Friday morning. By Sunday I’ll get those Simons out of the place. Methought I saw you ogling that woman,” he added, bringing his bony fist crashing down on the table so that papers, pen, and inkhorn rattled loudly; “and if I thought that you—”
De Batz thought it well at this point to finger once more nonchalantly the bundle of crisp paper in the pocket of his coat.