"
"Nay, don't be offended, Mrs. Robson; I meant no offence," returned
he, much mollified by this explanation; "but, really, when we see the
bread that should feed our children and our own poor eaten up by a
parcel of lazy French drones--all _Sans Culottes_ [The democratic
rabble were commonly so called at that early period of the French
Revolution; and certainly some of their demagogues did cross the
Channel at times, counterfeiting themselves to be loyal emigrants,
while assiduously disseminating their destructive principles wherever
they could find an entrance.] in disguise, for aught we know, who
cover our land, and destroy its produce like a swarm of filthy
locusts--we should be fools not to murmur. But Mr.----, Mr.----, what
do you call him, Mrs. Robson? is a different sort of body."
"Mr. Constantine," replied she, "and indeed he is; and no doubt, when
you recover him, he will pay you as though he were in his own
country."
This last assertion banished all remaining suspicion from the mind of
the apothecary; and, after giving the good woman what orders he
thought requisite, he returned home, promising to call again in the
evening.
Mrs. Robson went up stairs to the count's chamber with other
sentiments to her sapient doctor than those with which she came down.
She well recollected the substance of his discourse, and she gathered
from it that, however clever he might be in his profession, he was a
hard-hearted man, who would rather see a fellow-creature perish than
administer relief to him without a reward.
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