In the Name of Liberty: A Story of the TerrorJohnson, Owen
History
In the Name of Liberty: A Story of the Terror
Johnson, Owen
France -- History -- Revolution, 1789-1799 -- Fiction
Presently, reviewing idly the gorgeous clientele, his eye rested on
a knot of generals. The figure of the speaker caught his memory by a
certain trick of exuberant gesture that recalled a comrade of other
days. Calling a waiter, he demanded:
"That man over there, decorated with medals and laughing, in that
cluster of fighters, do you see him?"
"The Baron de Ricordo--yes, sir."
"What's his name?"
"The Baron de Ricordo; a great man in the Senate, sir."
"Ah, I thought he resembled some one else. Thanks."
Almost immediately, dissatisfied, he recalled him.
"And his family name? Find that out."
"Monsieur, he is a Barabant, of the well-known Barabants of the Midi.
The family is honorable and old. I--"
"Never mind. Ah, one thing more. Is he married? Tell me that."
"Monsieur, he marries this month,--a great marriage."
"Enough. That's sufficient."
At this moment the party pushed back their chairs and came straggling
toward him.
"When you're young all folly's possible," said the voice of Barabant at
his elbow.
"It's a wonder, I say, that we survive to middle age."
"Dame, yes!" replied the baron. "Will you believe it of me--at
twenty-five I wept because I could not die for an idea!"
Dossonville, who was on the point of rising, fell back and lowered
his head. The resplendent group swaggered down to the sidewalk, where
presently a magnificent equipage rolled up, a lady extended her hand
to the Baron de Ricordo, who, nodding to his comrades, sprang into the
carriage and drove off.
Pushing back the untasted glass, Dossonville rang for his bill.
"Monsieur doesn't take his drink," the garçon objected.
Dossonville, looking down, saw that it was true.
"There is something the matter, monsieur?"
"Exactly."
"Monsieur complains--"
"Ah, I have looked at the bottom of the glass, my friend," he answered;
but his glance was in the street. "When one drinks one should never do
that."
Leaving the perplexed garçon to turn over his words, he sauntered
among the thronged tables, and joining the slow procession of the
promenaders, was swept gradually away.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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