"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."

"Ha! you are right! But a republic is a social manure-heap--that which
is on the top is not pleasant, and the stuff below--ugh!"

The manner of the two men had quite changed. He who was called Morot
leant back in his seat and stretched his arms out wearily. There is no
disguise like animation; when that is laid aside we see the real man or
the real woman. In repose this Frenchman was not cheerful to look upon.
He was not sanguine, and a French pessimist is the worst thing of the
kind that is to be found.

When the door had closed behind the departing Lerac, the old priest
seemed to throw off suddenly quite a number of years. His voice, when
next he spoke, was less senile, his movements were brisker. He was, in a
word, less harmless.

Mr. Jacquetot had finished his dinner, brought in from a neighbouring
restaurant all hot, and was slumberously enjoying a very strong-smelling
cigar, when the door of the little room opened at length, and the two