Which books can never teach, nor pedants show.—Lyttleton.
The steamer, in due time, reached Liverpool; but Morton remained only a few days in England, crossing to Boulogne, and thence to Paris. Here he arrived late one afternoon; and taking his seat at the table d'h?te of Meurice's Hotel, he presently discovered among the guests the familiar profile of Vinal, who was just returned from a flying tour through the provinces. Vinal seemed not to see him; but at the close of the dinner, Morton came behind his chair and spoke to him. At his side sat a young man, whose face Morton remembered to have seen before. Vinal introduced him as Mr. Richards. When a boy, he had been a schoolmate of them both, and now called himself a medical student, living on the other side of the Seine. Having been in Paris for two years or more, he had, as he prided himself, a thorough knowledge of it; that is to say, he knew its sights of all kinds, and places of amusement of high and low degree. The sagacious Vinal thought himself happy in so able and zealous a guide.
"Mr. Vinal and I are going on an excursion about town to-night," said Richards; "won't you go with us?"
"Thank you," replied Morton, "I have letters to write, and do not mean to go out this evening."
Vinal and Richards accordingly set forth without him, the latter acquitting himself wholly to his companion's satisfaction and his own. Vinal, who inclined very little to youthful amusements, contemplated all he saw with the eye of a philosopher rather than of a sybarite, looking upon it as a curious study of human nature, in the knowledge of which he was always eager to perfect himself. In the course of their excursion, they entered a large and handsome building on the Boulevard des Italiens. Here they passed through a succession of rooms filled with men engaged in various games of hazard, more or less deep, and came at length to two small apartments, which seemed to form the penetralia of the temple.
In the farther of these was a table, about which sat some eight or ten well-dressed men, and at the head, a sedate, collected, vigilant-looking person, with a little wooden rake in his hand.
"Messieurs, tout est fait. Rien ne va plus," he said, drawing towards him a plentiful heap of gold coin, almost at the instant that Vinal and Richards came in. The game was that moment finished.
As he spoke, a strong, thick-set man rose abruptly from the table, muttering a savage oath through his black moustache, and brushing fiercely past the two visitors, went out at the door. Richards pressed Vinal's arm, as a hint that he should observe him. As the game was not immediately resumed, they soon left the room; and after staking and losing a few small pieces at another table, returned to the street.
"Did you observe that man who passed us?" asked Richards.
"Yes. He seemed out of humor with his luck."
"He was clean emptied out; I would swear to it. I was afraid he would see me as he went by, but he didn't."
"Why, do you know him?"
"O, yes; and you ought to know him too, if you want to understand how things are managed hereabouts. He's a patriot,—agitator,—democrat,—red republican,—conspirator,—you can call him whichever you like, according to taste. He's mixed up with all the secret clubs, secret committees, and what not, from one end of the continent to the other. He's a sort of political sapper and miner,—not exactly like our patriots of '76, but all's fair that aims a kick at the House of Hapsburg."
"Has he any special spite in that quarter?"
"He has been intriguing so long in Austria and Lombardy, that now he could not show his face there a moment without being arrested. So he is living here, where he keeps very quiet at present, for fear of consequences."
"What is his name?"
"Speyer,—Henry Speyer."
"A German?"
"No; he's of no nation at all. He belongs to a sort of mongrel breed, from the Rock of Gibraltar,—a cross of half the nations in Europe. They go by the name of Rock Scorpions. Speyer is a compound of German, Spanish, English, French, Genoese, and Moorish, and the result is the greatest rascal that ever went unhung. Still you ought to know him; he is a curiosity,—one of the men of the times. If you want to know the secret springs of the revolution that all the newspapers will be full of not many years from this, why, Speyer is one of them."
"But is there not some risk in being in communication with such a man?"
"Yes, if one isn't cautious. But, as I'll manage it, it will be perfectly safe."
Vinal, though morbidly timorous as respected peril to life or limb, was not wholly deficient in the courage of the intriguer—a quality quite distinct from the courage of the soldier. Any thing which promised to show him human nature under a new aspect, or disclose to him a hidden spring of human action, had a resistless attraction in his eyes. He therefore assented to Richards's proposal, and promised that, at some more auspicious time, he would go with him to the patriot's lodging.