“My dear lady,” the old man pleaded, “I’ve indeed not the least intention of failing in respect or patience, and you must excuse me if I don’t look after my manners. How can I when I’m so worried, so haunted? God knows I don’t want to quarrel. As I tell you, I only want to get Hyacinth free.”
“Free from what?” the Princess asked.
“From some abominable secret brotherhood or international league that he belongs to, the thought of which keeps me awake at night. He’s just the sort of youngster to be made a catspaw.”
“Your fears seem very vague.”
“I hoped you would give me chapter and verse.”
“On what do your suspicions rest? What grounds have you?” she insisted.
“Well, a great many; none of them very definite, but all contributing something—his appearance, his manner, the way he strikes me. Dear lady, one feels those things, one guesses. Do you know that poor infatuated phrasemonger Eustache Poupin, who works at the same place as Hyacinth? He’s a very old friend of mine and he’s an honest man, as phrasemongers go. But he’s always conspiring and corresponding and pulling strings that make a tinkle which he takes for the death-knell of society. He has nothing in life to complain of and drives a roaring trade. But he wants folk to be equal, heaven help him; and when he has made them so I suppose he’s going to start a society for making the stars in the sky all of the same size. He isn’t serious, though he imagines he’s the only human being who never trifles; and his machinations, which I believe are for the most part very innocent, are a matter of habit and tradition with him, like his theory that Christopher Columbus, who discovered America, was a Frenchman, and his hot foot-bath on Saturday nights. He has not confessed to me that Hyacinth has taken some intensely private engagement to do something for the cause which may have nasty consequences, but the way he turns off the idea makes me almost as uncomfortable as if he had. He and his wife are very sweet on their young friend, but they can’t make up their minds to interfere; perhaps for them indeed, as for me, there’s no way in which interference can be effective. Only I didn’t put him up to those devil’s tricks—or rather I did originally! The finer the work, I suppose, the higher the privilege of doing it; yet the Poupins heave socialistic sighs over the boy, and their peace of mind evidently isn’t all that it ought to be if they’ve given him a noble opportunity. I’ve appealed to them in good round terms, and they’ve assured me every hair of his head is as precious to them as if he were their own child. That doesn’t comfort me much, however, for the simple reason that I believe the old woman (whose grandmother, in Paris, in the Revolution, must certainly have carried bloody heads on a pike) would be quite capable of chopping up her own child if it would do any harm to proprietors. Besides, they say, what influence have they on Hyacinth any more? He’s a deplorable little backslider; he worships false gods. In short they’ll give me no information, and I daresay they themselves are tied up by some unholy vow. They may be afraid of a vengeance if they tell tales. It’s all sad rubbish, but rubbish may be a strong motive.”
The Princess listened attentively, following her visitor with patience. “Don’t speak to me of the French; I’ve never cared for them.”
“That’s awkward if you’re a socialist. You’re likely to meet them.”
“Why do you call me a socialist? I hate tenth-rate labels and flags,” she declared. Then she added: “What is it you suppose on Mr. Robinson’s part?—for you must suppose something.”