Saint-Péray started, half-rose from his seat and sank down again.
“If it is villainous to have lost belief in God,” he muttered, “I am a villain, and no longer worthy to utter her name—nor even to resent its utterance by you.”
“As you please,” said the doctor, coolly. “I served virtue in serving M. Saint-Péray, and so would serve again without asking thanks. But to become an apostate and be damned at the instance of her whose name you are unworthy to utter—that seems to me like meaning heterodox and acting paradox.”
The spark had spread to Louis-Marie’s cheek.
“I desire, monsieur,” he said loudly, but quaveringly, “that you will state what you wish of me without further comment on my affairs.”
Bonito was not ruffled, though immensely dry and articulate.
“Very well, Monsieur,” he said; “though you will forgive my proposing to amend your resolution by inserting the word present between the words further and comment. The time will come, perhaps, when you will see my disinterestedness and your own interests more closely. In the meanwhile I go wanting my gate-money.”
“Well? for your apotheosis, sir?”
“Exactly; by way of the lottery. The last of my scrap-metal, like the sculptor Cellini’s in the crisis of his fortunes, has gone into the mould. It needs but a finishing contribution, a final sacrifice, and the Perseus of my destiny will rise on winged feet. Other men have their systems, worldly and fallible. Mine derives from the stars and is infallible.”
Saint-Péray laughed shakily, starting to scoff, but compromising with discretion. His soul was always malleable by another’s strong conviction.