There are grey faces at the seats of the money-changers, for
war, the scourge of small cords, seems preparing for the overturning of
their tables, and the castigation of their persons.
Lewis and George rang the bell in the Faubourg St. Honore on a Monday
afternoon, and asked for Lord Rideaux. His lordship was out, but, if
they were the English gentlemen who had the appointment with M. Gribton,
Monsieur would be with them speedily.
Lewis looked about the heavily furnished ante-room with its pale yellow
walls and thick, green curtains, with the air of a man trying to recall
a memory. "I came over here with John Lambert, when his father had the
place. That was just after I left Oxford. Gad, I was a happy man then.
I thought I could do anything. They put me next to Madame de Ravignet
because of my French, and because old Ankerville declared that I ought
to know the cleverest woman in Europe. Sery, the man who was Premier
last year, came and wrung my hand afterwards, said my fortune was
assured because I had impressed the Ravignet, and no one had ever done
it before except Bismarck. Ugh, the place is full of ghosts Poor old
John died a year after, and here am I, far enough, God knows, from my
good intentions."
A servant announced "Monsieur Gribton," and a little grizzled man
hobbled in, leaning heavily on a stick. He wore a short beard, and in
his tanned face two clever grey eyes twinkled sedately.
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