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Their look was outward, on a world which had dealt her hard blows and few favours, but in which her interest was still fresh, amused and unabated. Amherst glanced at his watch. "Never mind Duplain will be later still. I had to go into Hanaford, and he is replacing me at the office." "So much the better, dear: we can have a minute to ourselves. Sit down and tell me what kept you."
The afternoon hours dragged slowly by in the office, where he was bound to his desk by Truscomb's continued absence; but at length the evening whistle blew, the clerks in the outer room caught their hats from the rack, Duplain presented himself with the day's report, and the two men were free to walk home. Two hours later Amherst was mounting Mrs.
This tribunal condemned a few persons, but the commune having conceived the most terrible projects, did not consider it sufficiently expeditious. At the head of the commune were Marat, Panis, Sergent, Duplain, Lenfent, Lefort, Jourdeuil, Collot d'Herbois, Billaud-Varennes, Tallien, etc.; but the chief leader of the party at that time was Danton.
"Say, John the boss is a looker," Duplain commented across the dinner-table, with the slangy grossness he sometimes affected; but Amherst left it to his mother to look a quiet rebuke, feeling himself too aloof from such contacts to resent them. He had to rouse himself with an effort to take in the overseer's next observation.
Even now that the opportunity had come, and all obstacles were levelled, sympathy with his work was as much lacking as ever; and only Duplain, at length reinstated as manager, really understood and shared in his aims. But Justine Brent's sympathy was of a different kind from the manager's.
Duplain was in the passage; he had just come out of the kitchen, and the fact that he had been washing his hands in the sink was made evident by his rolled-back shirt-sleeves, and by the shiny redness of the knuckles he was running through his stiff black hair.
Amherst looked up. "Did you show her over?" he asked with sudden interest. Duplain laughed slangily. "What? Me? And have Truscomb get on to it and turn me down? How'd I know she wasn't a yellow reporter?" Amherst uttered an impatient exclamation. "I wish to heaven a yellow reporter would go through these mills, and show them up in head-lines a yard high!"
"There's Duplain," he said, going into the passage; but on the threshold he encountered, not the young Alsatian overseer who boarded with them, but a small boy who said breathlessly: "Mr. Truscomb wants you to come down bimeby." "This evening? To the office?" "No he's sick a-bed." The blood rushed to Amherst's face, and he had to press his lips close to check an exclamation.
"Say I'll come as soon as I've had supper," he said. The boy vanished, and Amherst turned back to the sitting-room. "Truscomb's ill he has sent for me; and I saw Mrs. Westmore arriving tonight! Have supper, mother we won't wait for Duplain." His face still glowed with excitement, and his eyes were dark with the concentration of his inward vision. "Oh, John, John!" Mrs.
Poor Duplain, editor of the "Petit Courier," and subsequently of the "Echo," whom I remember one of the first partizans of the revolution, narrowly escaped the massacre of August 1792, and was afterwards guillotined for publishing the surrender of Landrecy three days before it was announced officially.
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