Latour quickened his pace and entered a house at the corner of a side
street. Yes, his master, the Citizen Bruslart was in, was the answer to
his inquiry, and the suspicion of a smile touched Latour's face at the
man's hesitation. After waiting a few moments he was announced, and
smiled again a little as he entered a room on the first floor, it was so
unlike his own, even as the occupant was unlike him.

"You favor me by this visit," said Bruslart, rising to welcome his
guest.

"You have not yet heard the reason of it."

If Latour expected his host to show any sign of anxiety he was
disappointed, and it was the man's nature to respect courage even in an
enemy. He hardly counted Bruslart as such, outwardly indeed they were
friends. Had Lucien Bruslart been a coward he would hardly have occupied
such an apartment as this and surrounded himself with so much luxury.
There was danger in luxury, yet it was a part of the man, fitted him,
was essential to him. He called himself citizen, sought the society of
patriots, talked as loudly as any. He had talked to such purpose that,
arrested and imprisoned as a dangerous aristocrat, he had been released
and welcomed as a true son of Paris. For all this, he was an aristocrat
to his finger tips, hated the very atmosphere of a true patriot, and
washed their touch from his hands with disgust. His own interests were
his paramount concern, he was clever enough to deceive friends and foes
as it suited him; even Latour was doubtful how to place him. He was a
handsome man, and had found that count for something even in
Revolutionary Paris; he was a determined man, with wit, and that art of
appearing to hide nothing. An aristocrat! By the misfortune of birth
that was all. A patriot! It was a safe profession. Luxury! Why not?