“Has his Highness any visitors?” he asked as he dismounted.
“Who are they?” He slipped a coin into the porter’s hand.
“One of the family--for so his Serene Highness calls him.”
“What d’Avranche? Not Prince Leopold John?”
“No, monsieur, the name is the same as his Highness’s.”
“From Paris, monsieur, with his Highness.”
The visitor, whistling softly to himself, stood thinking a moment.
“He walks, rides, talks with his Highness, asks questions of the people, reads in the library, and sometimes shoots and fishes.”
“He carries no sword, and he takes long aim with a gun.”
A sly smile was lurking about the porter’s mouth. The visitor drew from his pocket a second gold piece, and, slipping it into the other’s hand, said:
“Tell it all at once. Who is the gentleman, and what is his business here? Is he, perhaps, on the side of the Revolution, or does he--keep better company?”
He looked keenly into the eyes of the porter, who screwed up his own, returning the gaze unflinchingly. Handing back the gold piece, the man answered firmly:
“I have told monsieur what every one in the duchy knows; there’s no charge for that. For what more his Highness and--and those in his Highness’s confidence know,” he drew himself up with brusque importance, “there’s no price, monsieur.”
“Body o’ me, here’s pride and vainglory!” answered the other. “But I know you, my fine Pergot, I knew you almost too well years ago; and then you were not so sensitive; then you were a good Royalist like me, Pergot.”
This time he fastened the man’s look with his own and held it until Pergot dropped his head before it.
“I don’t remember monsieur,” he answered, perturbed.
“Of course not. The fine Pergot has a bad memory, like a good Republican, who by law cannot worship his God, or make the sign of the Cross, or, ask the priest to visit him when he’s dying. A red Revolutionist is our Pergot now!”
“I’m as good a Royalist as monsieur,” retorted the man with some asperity. “So are most of us. Only--only his Highness says to us--”
“Don’t gossip of what his Highness says, but do his bidding, Pergot. What a fool are you to babble thus! How d’ye know but I’m one of Fouche’s or Barere’s men? How d’ye know but there are five hundred men beyond waiting for my whistle?”