“The resurrection of France shall be in discretion. That is the real courage to those whose overbearing impulse is to strike. We are discreet, and we watch, and we evolve by degrees the whole alphabet of espionage. Let us call A the language of the hands. These the frost of poverty will stunt, the rack of labour will warp and disjoint. There is your sign of a citizen of the people. Monsieur has very pretty fingers and pink nails.”
“By the same token a corded fist should prove one to be a hangman. Monsieur has a knot for every knuckle.”
He nodded again. His calmness was more deadly than his wrath.
“You spit your insults over the shoulder of your master. You think yourself secure in your office. But there is an order of repartee unknown to patriots, for it was hatched in the hotbeds of Versailles.”
He fell back in his chair—still eyeing me—with a grunt; then suddenly leaned forward again.
“The alphabet,” he said, “of which B shall be designated the penetration of disguises. Coach-drivers, colporteurs, pedlars—oh, one may happen upon the cloven hoof amongst them all.”
I laughed, with a fine affectation of contempt. This mummy at the feast——
There was a sound in the room. I turned my head. The little aubergiste stood at the door, weeping and wringing her hands.
“Monsieur!” she cried, “do not let it be done!”
I rose and went to the child.