He came forward to the table, with long, nervous strides. He was not exactly impressive, but his manner gave the assurance of a distinct earnestness of purpose. The majority of us are unfortunately situated toward the world, as regards personal appearance. Many could pass for great if their physical proportions were less mean. There are thousands of worthy and virtuous young men who never receive their due in social life because they have red hair or stand four-feet-six high, or happen to be the victim of an inefficient dentist. The world, it would seem, does not want virtue or solid worth. It prefers appearance to either. Albert de Chantonnay would, for instance, have carried twice the weight in Royalist councils if his neck had been thicker.
He nodded to the Abbé.
“I received your message,” he said, in the curt manner of the man whose life is in his hand, or is understood, in French theatrical circles, to be thus uncomfortably situated. “The letter?”
“It is here, Monsieur Albert,” replied the Abbé, who was commonplace, and could not see himself as he wished others to see him. There was only one Abbé Touvent, for morning or afternoon, for church or fête, for the château or the cottage. There were a dozen Albert de Chantonnays, fierce or tender, gay or sad, a poet or a soldier—a light persifleur, who had passed through the mill, and had emerged hard and shining, or a young man of soul, capable of high ideals. To-night, he was the politician—the conspirator—quick of eye, curt of speech.
He held out his hand for the letter.
“You are to read it, as Monsieur le Marquis instructs me, Monsieur Albert,” hazarded the Abbé, touching the breast pocket of his soutane, where Monsieur de Gemosac’s letter lay hidden, “to those assembled.”
“But, surely, I am to read it to myself first,” was the retort; “or else how can I give it proper value?”