“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 _arrondissement_ 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 _arrondissement_ of the citizen--the good citizen--Antoine Lerac.” The butcher looked up with a doubtful expression upon his coarse 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 cassock.” “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 assumed 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.