“Bless my soul, M. Luyon!” cried the duke, “what can you mean by making a fortress of your cellars? It is dangerous to set foot in them, by your own account.”
“Only to those who have no business here,” replied Charles. “My man and I can tread in security.”
And he coolly gave his reasons for rendering his wine inaccessible; pointing out no party, but merely with a reference to the perpetual danger of disturbance in the present times.
“But it is absolutely a fortress,” repeated the duke. “Your door is massive. Is there no way of escape?——I mean, no other entrance?”
“None whatever,” replied Charles; and at this moment, Pierre, having set down the lantern, slammed the plated door, and barred and crossbarred it with a diligence which the guest by no means approved.
“A fortress is perfectly harmless when in friendly hands, and unless attacked,” observed Charles. “Here are no weapons of offence, you observe; and it is far from being my interest to blow up my stock, unless driven to it.”
“Or even then,” argued the duke. “Supposing your premises were attacked,—an idle anticipation;—but supposing they were, it would answer better to you to have them stripped than destroyed.”
“To my pocket, doubtless,” answered Charles, occupying himself with opening a flask; “but not to my conscience. If by my means a mob, or any individual of a mob, were to be incited to party violence,—if I were so treacherous as to allow their impulses of patriotism to be corrupted into licentiousness,—I should feel the manliness within me melting away. I should start at shadows for the rest of my days. No, sir; perish my possessions, rather than they should go to corrupt public virtue.—Taste this, I advise you, my lord duke.”
“Do not you think the air rather close here?” asked Orleans, in his smoothest manner. “Are not the fumes of this wine——”
“And of the gunpowder, my lord? They are no doubt oppressive to those who are unused to them. Open the door, Pierre.”