British -- France -- Fiction; France -- History -- Revolution, 1789-1799 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
Compact of solid humanity throughout its circumference, its edge was
nevertheless frayed, like the exterior of a clustered swarm of bees,
into a flitting and buzzing superficies of place-seekers.
These--scurrying, criss-crossing; sometimes settling upon and becoming
part of the main body; sometimes affecting a cynical indifference to a
show, from view of the inner processes of which their position
debarred them; in their formless excitement, their hysteric and
unmannered hunt for points of vantage, their magnifying of occasion
into epoch, their utter lack of the sense of moral proportion, of the
sense to distinguish appreciably between affairs of moment and affairs
of the moment--exhibited, as the typical traveller exhibits, those
national characteristics that seem as little accommodating to
revolution in principle as to revolution in habit.
“Only here,” thought Ned, “they are not discreditable exceptions to
the national rule, but fair samples of the whole.”
A couple, pausing within ear-shot of him, engaged his attention at the
instant. One of these, a lord of _clinquant_, self-satisfied,
arrogant-looking, and dressed, one might have fancied, to the top bent
of bourgeoisie, saluted the other, as a skipjack humours in himself a
holiday mood of affability, with an air of tolerant condescension.
“Eh, indeed, M. David!” said he. “You profit yourself of this
occasion. But, if I were in your position, I should seize it to lie
abed.”
The person addressed stood a half minute at acrid gaze--his shoulders
humped, and his hands gripped on the ebony crutch of his cane--before
he replied. He was a man of a somewhat formidable expression, with
red-brown hair all writhed into little curls, as if a certain inner
heat had warped it. His eyes were hard as flints; and the natural
causticity and determination of his face took yet more sinister
emphasis from a permanent distortion of the upper jaw, whereon an
accidental blow had caused a swelling that impaired his right speech
and made of his very smile a wickedness. His figure, square and firm,
if inclined to embonpoint, set off to advantage his suit of dark blue
cloth, very plain and neat, with silver buttons; his handkerchief and
simple ruffles were spotless, and about the whole man was an
appearance of cold self-containment that was full of the conscious
pride of intellectual caste.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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