“I am unaware of the result, naturally, Monsieur,” answered the schoolmaster. “In the case of Monsieur, it will probably be an inconsiderable fine, which the clerk of M. le Maire will no doubt regulate according to law. But for the coincidence, it would have been impossible to extricate Monsieur from that affair there—it was important that I should reach Paris: there is no favour to one or the other—only a compromise.”
“By George!” uttered the boy, staring, “you do not mean to say that long rigmarole account of yours was true?”
The Frenchman betrayed equal amazement. “Is it, then, possible, Monsieur,” said he, “that you doubt it—that you imagine these things not to exist precisely—not to bear themselves as I have stated!” Charles surveyed him coolly. “Think you, Monsieur,” continued the other, with some vehemence, “that one could at all events deceive one’s neighbours, who are aware of every circumstance—who will to-morrow demand of me the result! The police—who confide in my position, my character! No, Monsieur—it is truth that has happened to involve, as to extricate you—truth, by which France is at this moment so animated—by which we here are at the instant surrounded, controlled!”
Young Willoughby whistled slightly as he eyed him. “Oh?” was the careless rejoinder. “But for my part, I feel no inclination to trouble your worthy mayor. The whole thing is a humbug. What if I merely refuse to go, Mister Morran—indeed, if I have you set down beside the first fiacre, with your fare paid to the driver?”
“You do not comprehend this France here, Monsieur,” said the village teacher, blandly, as he let a voluntary gaze of his colourless eye rest on Charles. “She burns to support the law—to assist it. At a moment they are summoned to its aid—they are roused to complete it the more perfectly—they exaggerate. Besides, even in your house, by to-morrow, you would be traced. The offence would have become enhanced. It is owing to the sublime passion for the philosophical—the consistent, Monsieur!”
The boy eyed Morin with a useless frown; he had turned away. Looking about, and thinking, with a singular sense of antipathy, for which he could scarce find sufficient grounds, Charles sat mute; he began to feel as if, much though he despised this Morin, he would never be got rid of till some serious issue came of it in the end. But they reached the barrier, not yet closed—passed through, recognised and unquestioned; for to enter Paris seemed always easier than to get out of it; and rattled along the chaussée through close streets of a dingy faubourg. Much as it was out of their way, yet, to be finally rid of Monsieur Morin and his case, no course seemed secure but to drive straight to the authority he indicated. At the Rue de St Roche, accordingly, in the aristocratic suburb they at length drew up before a high old house in the row of stately mansions, where lacqueys lounged about the balustraded door-steps and huge portes-cochère, and the upper casements began to glow with light. “It is the Hotel St Mirel,” said the village teacher, as he began with difficulty to get down. He waited quietly for the young gentleman to follow him, and they went up the steps together.
The carriage had not stood waiting many minutes before Charles Willoughby reappeared alone. His face was bright with satisfaction.
“What an absurd affair, after all,” said he, contemptuously: “it cost about ten minutes and as many shillings. An old clerk at a table in an antechamber took down the statements on each side. Of course I allowed the facts; and it seems there’s an exact understood price tacked to every sort of assault in France, from a push to a kick, according to the quality of the parties; and if the fellow had pushed me, it would have cost him about double. There were two or three gentlemen talking in an inner room, who all came out together in riding-boots and coats—though which was which, one could hardly see against the large windows this time of night. I only fancy it was the Count that bowed to me, rather a young man, I should say—and looked at Morin rather sharply, giving a slight sort of nod; then he said something to the clerk, who told me I was fined half a louis-d’or, besides the five francs for his own fee, which he pocketed very graciously, getting up and putting off his spectacles. I only waited another minute to see if I could catch out that Morin somewhere, as soon as the Count called him aside in a hurry to the inner room; but I must say everything seemed to agree well enough with the fellow’s harangue at the village—his schoolmastership was evidently in danger—till all at once the Count came out again to tell the other gentlemen he could not go somewhere with them that evening. I believe the one was some celebrated actor at the theatre—which was he the footman couldn’t tell—and the other a dook, as John of course expressed it!”
“Why, that footman was English, then!” said Rose, gravely.
“Of course. As lazy a selfish dog, with his plump looks and his languid impertinence, as you’d see in all May Fair—old Jackson there’s a Roman by comparison—but somehow it refreshed one. I couldn’t help giving him my last half-crown, he fawned so about my hat and cane, as if to do something—and as for the coin, he examined it like a portrait. After that Morin, you know, anything’s pleasant that one’s accustomed to! We’re well quit of him. Happily, by the by, they forgot about the passports, and don’t even know my name. Being lame—if it’s not a sham—why, I fancy the fellow could scarce do otherwise than stay at the Count’s, down stairs with John!”