“My name is unknown to him; it matters nothing; I am the mouthpiece of a people, no more. Go.”
The usher went, and in the shadow of that lofty, pillared portico Andre-Louis waited, his eyes straying out ever and anon to survey that spread of upturned faces immediately below him.
Soon the president came, others following, crowding out into the portico, jostling one another in their eagerness to hear the news.
“You are a messenger from Rennes?”
“I am the delegate sent by the Literary Chamber of that city to inform you here in Nantes of what is taking place.”
“Your name?”
Andre-Louis paused. “The less we mention names perhaps the better.”
The president’s eyes grew big with gravity. He was a corpulent, florid man, purse-proud, and self-sufficient.
He hesitated a moment. Then—“Come into the Chamber,” said he.
“By your leave, monsieur, I will deliver my message from here—from these steps.”