in this
singular gentleman.

Valmond did not stir, but looked steadily at De la Riviere, and said
slowly, dramatically, yet with a strange genuineness also:

"The spirit of France, monsieur, the spirit of France looks not forward
only, but backward, for her inspiration. It is as ready for action now
as when the old order was dragged from Versailles to Paris, and in Paris
to the guillotine, when France got a principle and waited, waited--"

He did not finish his sentence, but threw back his head with a sort of
reflective laugh.

"Waited for what?" asked the young Seigneur, trying to conquer his
dislike.

"For the Man!" came the quick reply.

The avocat rubbed his hands in pleasure. He instantly divined one who
knew his subject, though he talked this melodramatically: a thing not
uncommon among the habitants and the professional story-tellers, but
scarcely the way of the coterie.

"Ah, yes, yes," he said, "for--? monsieur, for--?" He paused, as if to
give himself the delight of hearing their visitor speak.

"For Napoleon," was the abrupt reply.

"Ah, yes, dear Lord, yes--a Napoleon--of--of the Empire. France can only
cherish an idea when a man is behind it, when a man lives it, embodies
it. She must have heroes. She is a poet, a poet--and an actress."

"So said the Man, Napoleon," cried Valmond, getting to his feet.
"He said that to Barras, to Remusat, to Josephine, to Lucien, to--to
another, when France had for the moment lost her idea--and her man."

The avocat trembled to his feet to meet Valmond, who stood up as he
spoke, his face shining with enthusiasm, a hand raised in broad dramatic
gesture, a dignity come upon him, in contrast to the figure which had
disported itself through the village during the past week. The avocat
had found a man after his own heart. He knew that Valmond understood
whereof he spoke. It was as if an artist saw a young genius use a brush
on canvas for a moment; a swordsman watch an unknown master of the
sword. It was not so much the immediate act, as the divination, the
rapport, the spirit behind the act, which could only come from the soul
of the real thing.

"I thank you, monsieur; I thank you with all my heart," the avocat said.
"It is the true word you have spoken."

Here a lad came running to fetch the Little Chemist, and Medallion and
he departed, but not without the auctioneer having pressed Valmond's
hand warmly, for he was quick of emotion, and, like the avocat, he
r