“M. le Vicomte Murk?” said he, raising his eyebrows.
“Prospective, monsieur,” said Ned; “but as yet——”
“Ah, ha!” broke in the other, showing his teeth liberally, “you wait to step into old shoes. It was my case once—five years ago. I had not the pleasure to know your uncle, M. le Vicomte.”
“Pardon, monsieur. I am a plain gentleman.”
“Truly? We order things otherwise here—for the present, monsieur—for the present.”
Obviously he had no least recollection of the contretemps of the previous evening.
“And you are travelling for experience?” (He referred lightly to the letter in his hand, and lightly laughed.) “Possibly you shall acquire that, of a kind, in little rustic Méricourt. We are in advance of our times here—locusts of the Apocalypse, monsieur, having orders to respect only the seal of God.”
“We, generically, monsieur would say?”
“Oh! I include myself.” (He made a comprehensive gesture with his hand.) “Behold the monastic earnest of my renunciation. I am vowed to a religion of socialism that takes no account of superfluous frippery. I devote my pen and” (he laughed again) “dissipate my fortune to the cause of universal happiness.”
“Yourself thereby, I presume, securing the lion’s share.”