“My life, monsieur.”
De Lâge drew in his breath with a cruel sound.
“Hélas!” he cried. “You will have to pay the penalty! the faithful servant will have to pay the penalty!”
Crépin uttered an exclamation and strode forward.
“You have been stripped?” said he.
“Of all, monsieur, of all. There have been others here before you this morning—fine sans-culotte preachers of equality and the gospel of distribution, whose practice, nevertheless, is to enrich the poor at the expense of the wealthy. They were brave fellows by their own showing; yet they must truss me here before they dared brandish the fruits of their robbery before my eyes!”
Suddenly he was straining and screaming in his bonds, his face like a map of some inhuman territory of the passions, branched with veins for rivers of blood.
“Free me that I may kill some one!” he shrieked. “I am mad to groove my fingers in flesh! The time for concessions is past. I was as wax in their hands till they unearthed my plate, my coins, my riches. Now, now——”
He was indeed beyond himself, a better man—or devil—in his despair than the money-conscious craven who had palpitated over that little “Vive le roi!” once upon a time.
Crépin regarded the struggling creature with harsh contempt. This plebeian soul also was translated, but not to his moral promotion. It was evident he had enlarged the scope of his anticipations greatly in view of his prisoner’s promise; and his disappointment brought the spotted side of him uppermost.