“So I should imagine” (very gravely).
“Four hundred strong men,” broke in the old gentleman rather hastily. “Ah, but that is already a power.”
“It is,” opined Lerac sententiously, “the strong man who is the power. Riches are nothing; birth is nothing. This is the day of force. Force is everything.”
“Everything,” acquiesced Morot fervently. He was consulting a small note-book, wherein he jotted down some figures.
“Four hundred and two,” he muttered as he wrote, “up to Friday night, in the arrondissement of the citizen—the good citizen—Antoine Lerac.”
The butcher looked up with a doubtful expression upon his coarse face. His great brutal lips twitched, and he was on the point of speaking when the Citizen Morot's velvety eyes met his gaze with a quiet smile in which arrogance and innocence were mingled.
“And now,” said the last-mentioned, turning affably to the old gentleman, “let us have the report of the reverend Father.”
“Ah,” laughed Lerac, without attempting to conceal the contempt that was in his soul, “the Church.”
The old gentleman spread out his hands in mild deprecation.
“Yes,” he admitted, “we are under a shadow. I do not even dare to wear my cassock.”