“If this young man betrays me,” said M. de la Mole to himself, “whom is one to trust? And yet, when one acts, one must trust someone. My son and his brilliant friends of the same calibre have as much courage and loyalty as a hundred thousand men. If it were necessary to fight, they would die on the steps of the throne. They know everything—except what one needs in emergency. Devil take me if I can find a single one among them who can learn four pages by heart and do a hundred leagues without being tracked down. Norbert would know how to sell his life as dearly as his grandfathers did. But any conscript could do as much.”
The marquis fell into a profound reverie. “As for selling one’s life too,” he said with a sigh, “perhaps this Sorel would manage it quite as well as he could.
“Let us get into the carriage,” said the marquis as though to chase away an unwanted idea.
“Monsieur,” said Julien, “while they were getting this suit ready for me, I learnt the first page of to-days Quotidienne by heart.”
The marquis took the paper. Julien recited it without making a single mistake. “Good,” said the marquis, who this night felt very diplomatic. “During the time he takes over this our young man will not notice the streets through which we are passing.”
They arrived in a big salon that looked melancholy enough and was partly upholstered in green velvet. In the middle of the room a scowling lackey had just placed a big dining-table which he subsequently changed into a writing-table by means of an immense green inkstained tablecloth which had been plundered from some minister.
The master of the house was an enormous man whose name was not pronounced. Julien thought he had the appearance and eloquence of a man who ruminated. At a sign from the marquis, Julien had remained at the lower end of the table. In order to keep himself in countenance, he began to cut quills. He counted out of the corner of his eye seven visitors, but Julien could only see their backs. Two seemed to him to be speaking to M. de la Mole on a footing of equality, the others seemed more or less respectful.
A new person entered without being announced. “This is strange,” thought Julien. “People are not announced in this salon. Is this precaution taken in my honour?” Everybody got up to welcome the new arrival. He wore the same extremely distinguished decoration as three of the other persons who were in the salon. They talked fairly low. In endeavouring to form an opinion of the new comer, Julien was reduced to seeing what he could learn from his features and his appearance. He was short and thick-set. He had a high colour and a brilliant eye and an expression that looked like a malignant boar, and nothing else.
Julien’s attention was partly distracted by the almost immediate arrival of a very different kind of person. It was a tall very thin man who wore three or four waistcoats. His eye was caressing, his demeanour polite.
“He looks exactly like the old bishop of Besançon,” thought Julien. This man evidently belonged to the church, was apparently not more than fifty to fifty-five years of age, and no one could have looked more paternal than he did.