The Slave of the Lamp Part 2

"Thank you," he said gravely.

Then he turned in his chair and threw the papers into the ash-tray of the little iron stove behind him.

"I judged it best to be strictly business-like," said the butcher, with moderately well-simulated carelessness.

"But yes, Monsieur Lerac," with a shrug. "We of the Republic distrust each other so completely."

The old gentleman looked from one to the other with a soothing smile.

"The brave Lerac," he said, "is a man of business."

Citizen Morot ignored this observation.

"And," he said, turning to Lerac, "you have them stored in a safe place?

There is absolutely no doubt of that?"

"Absolutely none."

"Good."

"They are under my own eye."

"Very good. It is not for a short time only, but for some months. One cannot hurry the people. Besides, we are not ready. The rifles we bought, the ammunition we must steal."

"They are good rifles--they are English," said the butcher.

"Yes; the English Government is full of chivalry. They are always ready to place it within the power of their enemies to be as well armed as themselves."

The old gentleman laughed--a pleasant, cooing laugh. He invariably encouraged humour, this genial philanthropist.

"At last Friday's meeting," Lerac said shortly, "we enrolled forty new members. We now number four hundred and two in our _arrondiss.e.m.e.nt_ alone."

"Good," muttered the Citizen Morot, without enthusiasm.

"And four hundred hardy companions they are."

"So I should imagine" (very gravely).

"Four hundred strong men," broke in the old gentleman rather hastily.

"Ah, but that is already a power."

"It is," opined Lerac sententiously, "the strong man who is the power.

Riches are nothing; birth is nothing. This is the day of force. Force is everything."

"Everything," acquiesced Morot fervently. He was consulting a small note-book, wherein he jotted down some figures.

"Four hundred and two," he muttered as he wrote, "up to Friday night, in the _arrondiss.e.m.e.nt_ of the citizen--the good citizen--Antoine Lerac."

The butcher looked up with a doubtful expression upon his coa.r.s.e face.

His great brutal lips twitched, and he was on the point of speaking when the Citizen Morot's velvety eyes met his gaze with a quiet smile in which arrogance and innocence were mingled.

"And now," said the last-mentioned, turning affably to the old gentleman, "let us have the report of the reverend Father."

"Ah," laughed Lerac, without attempting to conceal the contempt that was in his soul, "the Church."

The old gentleman spread out his hands in mild deprecation.

"Yes," he admitted, "we are under a shadow. I do not even dare to wear my ca.s.sock."

"You are in a valley of shadow, my reverend friend," said the butcher, with visible exultation, "to which the sun will never penetrate now."

The Citizen Morot laughed at this pleasantry, while the old man against whom it was directed bowed his head patiently.

"And yet," said the laugher, with a certain air of patronage, "the Church is of some use still. She paid for those rifles, and she will pay for the ammunition--is it not so, my father?"

"Without doubt--without doubt."

"Not to mention," continued the other, "many contributions towards our general fund. The force that is supplied by the strong right arm of the people is, one finds, a force constantly in need of substantial replenishment."

"But," exclaimed the butcher, emphatically banging his fist down upon the table, "why does she do it? That is what I want to know!"

The old priest glanced furtively towards Morot, and then his face a.s.sumed an air of childish bewilderment.

"Ah!" he said guilelessly, "who can tell?"

"Who, indeed!" chimed in Morot.

The butcher was pleased with himself. He sat upright, and, banging the table a second time, he looked round defiantly.

"But," said Morot, in an indifferent way which was frequently characteristic, "I do not see that it matters much. The money is good.

It buys rifles, and it places them in the hands of the Citizen Lerac and his hardy companions. And when all is said and done, when the cartridges are burnt and a New Commune is raised, what does it matter whose money bought the rifles, and with what object the money was supplied?"

The old gentleman looked relieved. He was evidently of a timid and conciliatory nature, and would, with slight encouragement, have turned upon that Church of which he was the humble representative, merely for the sake of peace.

The butcher cleared his throat after the manner of the streets--causing Morot to wince visibly--and acquiesced.

"But," he added cunningly, "the Church, see you--Ach! it is deep--it is treacherous. Never trust the Church!"

The Citizen Morot, to whom these remarks were addressed, smiled in a singular way and made no reply. Then he turned gravely to the old man and said--

"Have you nothing to report to us--my father?"

"Nothing of great importance," replied he humbly. "All is going on well.

We are in treaty for two hundred rifles with the Montenegrin Government, and shall no doubt carry the contract through. I go to England next week in order to carry out the--the--what shall I say?--the loan of the ammunition."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the butcher.

Morot smiled also, as he made an entry in the little note-book.