There was a short silence in the room while these two birds of a feather reflected.
Suddenly Vassili tapped himself on the chest with his forefinger.
“It was I,” he said, “who crushed that very dangerous movement—the Charity League.”
“I know it.”
“A movement, my dear baron, to educate the moujik, if you please. To feed him and clothe him, and teach him—to be discontented with his lot. To raise him up and make a man of him. Pah! He is a beast. Let him be treated as such. Let him work. If he will not work, let him starve and die.”
“The man who cannot contribute toward the support of those above him in life is superfluous,” said De Chauxville glibly.
“Precisely. Now, my dear baron, listen to me!” The genial Vassili leaned forward and tapped with one finger on the knee of De Chauxville, as if knocking at the door of his attention.
“I am all ears, mon bon monsieur,” replied the Frenchman, rather coldly. He had just been reflecting that, after all, he did not want any favor from Vassili for the moment, and the manner of the latter was verging on the familiar.
“The woman—who—sold—me—the Charity League papers dined at my house in Paris—a fortnight ago,” said Vassili, with a staccato tap on his companion’s knee by way of emphasis to each word.
“Then, my friend, I cannot—congratulate—you—on the society—in—which you move,” replied De Chauxville, mimicking his manner.