For a moment—and a moment only—the Vicomte's profound gaze rested on the Englishman's face. Mr. Bodery was evidently absorbed in the enjoyment of his cigar. The smile that lay on his genial face like a mask was the smile of a consciousness that he was making himself intensely pleasant, and adapting his conversation to his company in a quite phenomenal way.
“Ah!” replied the Frenchman, with a neat little shrug of bewilderment. “Who can tell? Probably there is no meaning in it. There is so often no meaning in the action of a Parisian mob.”
“Many things without meaning are not without result.”
Again the Vicomte looked at Mr. Bodery, and again he was baffled.
“You only asked me the meaning,” he said lightly. “I am glad you did not inquire after the result; because there I should indeed have been at fault. I always argue to myself that it is useless to trouble one's brain about results. I leave such matters to the good God. He will probably do just as well without my assistance.”
“You are a philosopher,” said Mr. Bodery, with a pleasant and friendly laugh.
“Thank Heaven—yes! Look at my position. Fancy carrying in France to-day a name that is to be found in the most abridged history. One needs to be a philosopher, Mr. Bodery.”
“But,” suggested the Englishman, “there may be changes. It may all come right.”
The Vicomte sipped his whisky and water with vicious emphasis.
“If it began at once,” he said, “it would never be right in my time. Not as it used to be. And in the meantime we are in the present—in the present France is governed by newspaper men.”