“An aristocrat.”
“You flatter me, citizen.” Condorcet’s face was dark and violent; he could not keep his tone humble; he could not forget that this man might have been his servant a few years ago–a creature who would never have presumed to address him; all the lessons of the Revolution had not killed his heritage of aristocratic pride.
“Stand up,” said the man from Bourg-la-Reine.
The Marquis kept his seat.
“I stand up when I rise to leave the inn, citizen,” he answered.
The other man was standing watchfully by the door; the woman had summoned others; they might be seen in the passage, a rough hovering group.
Condorcet knew that he was trapped; his nostrils dilated and his thin lips compressed; he eyed his enemy steadily.
“Now I will go on my way,” he said, and rose–a gaunt, ragged figure against the background of sunny chestnut leaves tapping at the thick glass window-panes. He came round the table and he walked easily despite his bleeding feet and the rough boots that galled them. The heavy person of the official barred his way.
“Will you not wait for your dozen eggs?” he sneered and put out a thick hand to seize the Marquis’ shoulder, but Condorcet moved swiftly aside.