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Updated: August 26, 2024
One, a slight bald man, very dark and sallow, was an Italian. The third, who seemed like an ouvrier in his holiday clothes, was a Belgian. Lebeau greeted them all with an equal courtesy, and each with an equal silence took his seat at the table. Lebeau glanced at the clock.
The false Lebeau gathered up his papers, readjusted his spectacles and his bag, descended lightly, and, pressing Graham's hand as he paused at the door, said, "Be sure I will not forget your address if I have anything to say. Bon voyage" Graham continued his journey to Strasbourg. On arriving there he felt very unwell.
Lebeau fascinated him, and took colossal proportions in his intoxicated vision, vision indeed intoxicated at this moment, for before it floated the realized image of his aspirations, a journal of which he was to be the editor-in-chief; in which his poetry, his prose, should occupy space as large as he pleased; through which his name, hitherto scarce known beyond a literary clique, would resound in salon and club and cafe, and become a familiar music on the lips of fashion.
Lebeau leisurely took up his hat and drew on his gloves then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned briskly on the artisan and said in quick blunt tones: "Armand Monnier, explain to me why it is that you a Parisian artisan, the type of a class the most insubordinate, the most self-conceited that exists on the face of earth take without question, with so docile a submission, the orders of a man who plainly tells you he does not sympathise in your ultimate objects, of whom you really know very little, and whose views you candidly own you think are those of an old and obsolete school of political reasoners."
He had at least the courage of his opinions, and was always thoroughly in earnest. M. Lebeau seemed to know this man, and honoured him with a nod and a smile, when passing by him to the table he generally occupied. This familiarity with a man of that class, and of opinions so extreme, excited Graham's curiosity. One evening he said to Lebeau, "A queer fellow that you have just nodded to.
But of all who gathered round the table at which M. Lebeau presided, he had the most distinguished exterior, a virile honest exterior, a massive open forehead, intelligent eyes, a handsome clear-cut incisive profile, and solid jaw.
I fancy I saw him the other evening gilding along the lanes of Belleville. He is too confirmed a conspirator to be long out of Paris; no place like Paris for seething brains." "Have you known M. Lebeau long?" asked Rameau. "Ay, many years. We are both Norman by birth, as you may perceive by something broad in our accent." "Ha!
"What is it?" were the wild counter-cries. "The man! The girl! The children! Where are they?" "What? Which? The Lebeau family? They are here with us." "Where?" Where, indeed? To a call to them from Roger there came no answer, nor did a hasty search result in finding them the old man, the two boys, and the girl carrying the bundle of clothes had vanished into the night.
Left alone, Lebeau leaned his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand, and gazing into the dim space, for it was now, indeed, night, and little light came through the grimy panes of the one window left unclosed by shutters. He was musing deeply. This man was, in much, an enigma to himself. Was he seeking to unriddle it? A strange compound of contradictory elements.
On the mantelpiece there was a huge clock, and some iron sconces were fixed on the panelled walls. Lebeau flung himself, with a wearied air, into the fauteuil. The porter looked at him with a kindly expression. He had a liking to Lebeau, whom he had served in his proper profession of messenger or commissionnaire before being placed by that courteous employer in the easy post he now held.
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