"That will do, Raoux," said Keller Bey, somewhat impatiently. "I shall send for you again when I need you."
He went out slowly, with a lingering, backward look, full of spite and malice, his words and face distilling hatred like the poison-fangs of a viper. I heard him mutter as he passed:
"You will send for me when you want me—take care I do not come when you want me least!"
It was indeed time to get away—the Commune of Aramon stood on the verge of a volcano which might blow us into the air any day.
Yet, how could I leave Keller Bey to his fate, and, if I did, how could I face Linn and Alida?
* * * * *
The days passed heavily in Aramon, yet with a kind of feverish excitement too—an undercurrent of danger which thrills a swimmer cutting his way through smooth upper waters when he feels the swirl of the undertow. The Commune of Aramon met daily for discussion, and reports of its meetings are still to be found in the little red-covered, tri-weekly sheet, Le Flambeau du Midi, of which I possess a set.
They appear to have discussed the most anodyne matters. They gabbled of drainage and water supplies, the suspension of rents and pawnbrokers' pledges for six months. They came to sharp words, almost to blows—"Moderates" and "Mountain," as in the old days of 1793—while outside the companies of the Avengers of Marat, the dark young men of the wolf-like prowl, kept their watch and took their sullen counsel.
Provisions showed no visible stoppage. The country about Aramon was an early one—the great market for primeurs being Château Renard, only ten miles away. Thither Père Félix, learned in the arts of restaurant supply, sent a little permanent guard to direct the provisioning of Aramon city.
I think the only man outside Château Schneider who saw what was coming upon the new Government was my Hugolâtre of a station-master up at the junction. I went to see him every day and he never ceased to urge me to clear out of the town lest worse should befall me.