‘Well said!’ ‘True!’ ‘Maurepas is right!’ resounded through the room.
‘We are, then, agreed in this,’ resumed Maurepas, following up his success with vigour; ‘and there is only one among us who deems that the blood of the plebeian is wanting to lend us chivalry and devotion.’
‘Shame! shame!’ cried several together, and looks of disapprobation were now turned on Fitzgerald.
‘If I have unintentionally misrepresented the Chevalier,’ resumed Maurepas, ‘he is here to correct me.’
Gerald arose, his face crimson, the flush spreading over his forehead and his temples. There was a wild energy in his glance that showed the passion that worked within him; but though his chest heaved with high indignation and his heart swelled, his tongue could not utter a word, and he stood there mute and confounded.
‘There, there—enough of it!’ exclaimed an old officer, whose venerable appearance imparted authority to his words. ‘The Chevalier retracts, and there is an end to it.’
‘I do not. I withdraw nothing—not a syllable of what I said,’ cried Gerald wildly.
‘It is far better thus, then,’ cried Maurepas; ‘let the corps decide between us.’
‘Decide what,’ exclaimed Gerald passionately. ‘Monsieur de Maurepas would limit the courage and bravery of France to the number of those who wear our uniform. I am disposed to believe that there are some hundreds of thousands just as valiant and just as loyal who carry less lace on their coats, and some even——’ here he stopped confused and abashed, when a deep voice called out—
‘And some even who have no coats at all. Is it not so you would say, Chevalier?’