For once in his life the avocat bridled up. He got to his feet, and
stood silent an instant, raising himself up and down on his tiptoes, his
lips compressed, his small body suddenly contracting to a firmness, and
grown to a height, his eyelids working quickly. To the end of his life
the Cure remembered and talked of the moment when the avocat gave battle.
To him it was superb--he never could have done it himself.
"I repeat, His Excellency, Monsieur De la Riviere. My information is
greater than yours, both by accident and through knowledge. I accept him
as a Napoleon, and as a Frenchman I have no cause to blush for my homage
or my faith, or for His Excellency. He is a man of loving disposition,
of great knowledge, of power to win men, of deep ideas, of large courage.
Monsieur, I cannot forget the tragedy he stayed at the smithy, with risk
of his own life. I cannot forget--"
The Cure, anticipating, nodded at him encouragingly. Probably the avocat
intended to say something quite different, but the look in the Cure's
eyes prompted him, and he continued:
"I cannot forget that he has given to the poor, and liberally to the
Church, and has promised benefits to the deserving--ah, no, no, my dear
Seigneur!"
He had delivered his speech in a quaint, quick way, as though addressing
a jury, and when he had finished, he sat down again, and nodded his head,
and tapped a foot on the floor; and the Cure did the same, looking
inquiringly at De la Riviere.
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