“Your insolence—” he breathed. “You have no right to detain me.”
The people round the door began laughing; Condorcet gave them a bitter look, and in that instant when his eyes were directed his opponent seized him and thrust him backwards against the wall, while he plunged a hand into his torn pocket.
Condorcet shuddered and the blood surged up into his hollow face while the official pulled out a small old book with a discoloured calf cover.
“A foreign language!” he cried, fluttering over the leaves. “I smell treason!”
“Is it treason to read Horace?” asked the Marquis fiercely.
“Do you–a servant–read this?” was the triumphant counter question. “Eh, do you read this, then?”
The people at the door began to crowd into the room; the Marquis took a step forward; there was no possible supposing that he would escape the malice and fury fronting him; he did not for an instant hope it; instinctively, his right hand went round to his left hip where his sword should have been.
The unmistakable gesture was instantly noticed and excited murmurs went up from the gathered peasants.
“By God, you are an aristocrat!” cried the man from Bourg-la-Reine, seizing him roughly.
“By God I am!” answered Condorcet, and struck him across the face.…