"I will, then, soothe your nerves, if you wish it, sir. My work certainly was very real. For the past two weeks my abode has been in the Faubourg St. Antoine, but my days were spent in a very different part of the city. At dawn each morning, in company with my colleague—not M. de St. Pierre, here—I left behind those houses whose inmates rejoiced in clothes to cover themselves, in money enough to purchase a bone for soup daily, and who were even sometimes able to give away a piece of black bread to a beggar. These luxurious places we left, I say, and together descended into hell. It might amuse you still more, monsieur, to behold the alleys, the courts, the kennels, the holes filled with living filth into the midst of which we went. There women disfigure or cripple their children for life in order to give them a means of livelihood, that they may become successful beggars; there wine is not heard of, but alcohol is far commoner than bread; there you may buy souls for a quart of brandy, but must deliver your own into their keeping if you have not the wherewithal to appease, for a moment, their hatred of you, who are clean, who are fed, who are warm. Cleanliness down there is a crime. Ah! how they hate you, those dwellers in the Hell of Earth! How they hate us, and how they curse God for the lives they must lead! The name of God is never used except in oaths. And yet a girl, whose dying child I washed, knew how to bless me one day there. It seems to me that they might all learn how, if opportunity were but given them. There has been some bitter weather lately, when the frozen Seine has been a highway for trades-people. Those creatures among whom I went make no change from their summer toilets, gentlemen. Half—all the children—are quite naked. The women have one garment, and their hair. The men are clad in blouses, with perhaps a pair of sabots, if they can fight well to obtain them, or are ready to do murder without a qualm to keep them in their possession. It is among these people that I worked, Monsieur—de Gêvres—with my colleague."
"How eminently disgusting!" replied the Duke, calmly, but his remark was not pleasing to the rest of those present, who had been actually affected by the description. Henri de Mailly had risen to his feet, and, after a moment's pause, asked, rather harshly, "Who was your colleague, monsieur?"
The Marquis de Coigny shot a quick, warning glance at Henri, and raised his hand. "Monsieur l'Abbé, I am interested in your story. Would you do me the honor to breakfast with me this morning, and tell me more of this life?"
The little audience stared, and la Châteauroux lifted her head rather haughtily. Devries appeared, for some reason, to be very much amused.
"You are too good, Monsieur le Marquis. I have already partaken of my morning crust. Besides, you, doubtless, are happy enough to be daily in the company of Mme. de Châteauroux; while I, monsieur, am a poor priest, not often admitted to the dwellings of the highest." He rolled his eyes towards the figure of the Duchess, who was becoming visibly gracious under the effect of this slight compliment.
"You are not, then, a sharer of the opinions of those poor creatures amongst whom you have worked, and who, as you truthfully suggest, have some little cause to hate us, who have so much more in life than they?" queried Maurepas, with the interest of a Minister of the Interior.
"No, monsieur, assuredly I have no feeling of enmity towards the nobility of France. I should have no right. You see, I know very—very lit—" Suddenly Devries caught the eyes of St. Pierre fixed on him in so curious a glance that he was forced to stop speaking. His mouth began to twitch at the corners. He shook with an inward spasm, and finally lay back upon the sofa, emitting peal after peal of silvery, feminine laughter.
"Victorine!" cried the Duchess, starting from her chair. "Victorine, you madcap! So you have come back again!"
"Mme. de Coigny insisted," murmured St. Pierre, uncertain of his position.
The rest of the gentlemen sat perfectly still, staring at the little Marquise, and trying, out of some sense of propriety or gallantry, to keep from joining in her infectious laughter. Only Henri de Mailly sat near a window, his head on his fist, staring gloomily out upon the barren, stone-paved court.