“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. “Next week?” he said interrogatively. “Yes--on Tuesday.” “Thank you.” The butcher here rose and ostentatiously dragged out a watch from the depths of his blouse. “I must go,” he said. “I have committee at seven o'clock. And I shall dine first.” “Yes,” said Morot gravely. “Dine first. Take good care of yourself, citizen.” “Trust me.” “I do,” was the reply, delivered with a little nod in answer to Lerac's curt farewell bow. The butcher walked noisily through the shop--heavy with responsibility--weighted with the sense of his own importance to the world in general and to France in particular. Had he walked less noisily he might have overheard the soft laugh of the old priest. Citizen Morot did not laugh. He was not a laughing man. But a fine, disdainful smile passed over his face, scarce lighting it up at all. “What an utter fool the man is!” he said impatiently. “Yes--sir,” replied the old man, “but if he were less so it would be difficult to manage him.” “I am not sure. I always prefer to deal with knaves than with fools.” “That is because your Highness knows how to outwit them.” “No titles--my father,” said the Citizen Morot quietly. “No titles here, if you please. Tell me, are you quite sure of this scum--this Lerac?” “As sure as one can be of anything that comes from the streets. He is an excitable, bumptious, quarrelsome man; but he has a certain influence with those beneath him, although it seems hard to realise that there are such.”