"
As soon as Francis could disengage himself from the porter he ran
upstairs and hurried to the window. Immediately below the clear
space in the chestnut leaves, the two gentlemen were seated in
conversation over a cigar. The General, a red, military-looking
man, offered some traces of a family resemblance to his brother; he
had something of the same features, something, although very
little, of the same free and powerful carriage; but he was older,
smaller, and more common in air; his likeness was that of a
caricature, and he seemed altogether a poor and debile being by the
side of the Dictator.
They spoke in tones so low, leaning over the table with every
appearance of interest, that Francis could catch no more than a
word or two on an occasion. For as little as he heard, he was
convinced that the conversation turned upon himself and his own
career; several times the name of Scrymgeour reached his ear, for
it was easy to distinguish, and still more frequently he fancied he
could distinguish the name Francis.
At length the General, as if in a hot anger, broke forth into
several violent exclamations.
"Francis Vandeleur!" he cried, accentuating the last word.
"Francis Vandeleur, I tell you."
The Dictator made a movement of his whole body, half affirmative,
half contemptuous, but his answer was inaudible to the young man.
Was he the Francis Vandeleur in question? he wondered.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200