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Updated: June 23, 2025
He sat upright, and, banging the table a second time, he looked round defiantly. "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.
It is probable that, had Lerac looked back, there would have been murder done in the small room behind the tobacco-shop. But the contemptuous smile soon vanished from the face of the Citizen Morot. No smile lingered there long. It was not built upon smiling lines at all. Then he took up his letters.
It is, perhaps, fortunate that Antoine Lerac is of no great prominence in this record, and of none in his official capacity at the slaughter-house. But the man is worthy of some small attention, because he was so essentially of the nineteenth century so distinctly a product of the latter end of what is, for us at least, the most important cycle of years the world has passed through.
He folded the paper again and carefully tore it into very small pieces. "Thank you," he said gravely. Then he turned in his chair and threw the papers into the ash-tray of the little iron stove behind him. "I judged it best to be strictly business-like," said the butcher, with moderately well-simulated carelessness. "But yes, Monsieur Lerac," with a shrug.
"And now," said the last-mentioned, turning affably to the old gentleman, "let us have the report of the reverend Father." "Ah," laughed Lerac, without attempting to conceal the contempt that was in his soul, "the Church." The old gentleman spread out his hands in mild deprecation. "Yes," he admitted, "we are under a shadow. I do not even dare to wear my cassock."
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