"There is where I differ with you, my dear marquis," said the Count d'Arlincourt; "I am willing to take what responsibility falls to me by right, but I emphatically refuse to pay the penalty of your follies."
"My follies are but those of my class. You may have been an exception yourself, d'Arlincourt, but that will not save you."
"What penalties must we pay? Save him from what?" demanded the pretty countess, looking at St. Hilaire with her large blue eyes.
"From the revolution," was the answer. There was a general exclamation of surprise. D'Arlincourt took up the word.
"Like all men given to excess,—pardon the remark, marquis, but you have yourself admitted it,—you exaggerate the present unquiet state of affairs. The people will not revolt. They have no real cause. If you had made such a statement twenty years ago during the ascendancy of the infamous du Barry I might not have contradicted you. But now the people as a mass are loyal. They love their king."
"I still affirm," said St. Hilaire, "that the time is ripe for a revolution. Sooner or later it must come."
The chevalier from the further end of the table said quietly; "It has come."
"Surely you are not serious," said d'Arlincourt, turning to the chevalier, "in calling the disturbance of the past few days a revolution. Why, I have seen more serious revolts than this blow into nothing. Our Paris mob is a fickle creature, demanding blood one moment and the next moment throwing up its cap with delight if you show it a colored picture."
"The disturbance of to-day will become great enough to shake France to its centre," said the chevalier.
"One would think that you possessed the gift of second sight," laughed de Lacheville.