“Monsieur Valmond, how fares this spirit of France now—you come from France?”
There was a shadow of condescension and ulterior meaning in De la Riviere’s voice, for he had caught the tricks of the poseur in this singular gentleman.
Valmond did not stir, but looked steadily at De la Riviere, and said slowly, dramatically, yet with a strange genuineness also:
“The spirit of France, monsieur, the spirit of France looks not forward only, but backward, for her inspiration. It is as ready for action now as when the old order was dragged from Versailles to Paris, and in Paris to the guillotine, when France got a principle and waited, waited—”
He did not finish his sentence, but threw back his head with a sort of reflective laugh.
“Waited for what?” asked the young Seigneur, trying to conquer his dislike.
“For the Man!” came the quick reply.
The avocat rubbed his hands in pleasure. He instantly divined one who knew his subject, though he talked this melodramatically: a thing not uncommon among the habitants and the professional story-tellers, but scarcely the way of the coterie.
“Ah, yes, yes,” he said, “for—? monsieur, for—?” He paused, as if to give himself the delight of hearing their visitor speak.
“For Napoleon,” was the abrupt reply.