“At monsieur’s service,” said Ned, rising, with a complete lack of cordiality. “And of the Rue Beautreillis, M. David, where a poor devil of a papetier had his factory gutted.”
He drew a little away. David’s face showed villainously distorted.
“That may be,” said he, taken aback. Then he advanced again, with an air of sudden frankness. “‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’ We do not, in these days of realisation, repudiate our responsibility for the acts that in those were tentative. But a generous conqueror does not dwell on the humiliation of his adversaries. The end justifies the means, monsieur; and you, at least, if I remember, were no advocate of social tyranny. But that was long ago, yet not so long but that I can recall monsieur as a promising probationer in the art that is the most admirable in the world.”
Ned, touched upon his unguarded side, was standing at a loss for an answer, when the painter’s two companions joined the group at the table.
“Citizen Egalité,” said David, addressing the supercilious-looking man, “let me have the pleasure of making known to you M. Murk, an artist who would be a patriot were he not, unfortunately for us, an Englishman.”
Ned started.
“Egalité!” he exclaimed.
“Ci-devant Duc d’Orléans,” said the tall man himself, with a little mocking bow.
“Monseigneur,” began Ned.
“Citizen,” said the other, bowing again.