The maître-d’hôtel bowed again, more respectfully, perhaps, than he would have done to a reigning monarch.
“Therefore, sir,” continued the old marshal, “you will, as I have none but noblemen to dinner, let us dine at my usual hour, four o’clock.”
At this order, the countenance of the maître-d’hôtel became clouded as if he had heard his sentence of death; he grew deadly pale; then, recovering himself, with the courage of despair he said, “In any event, your grace cannot dine before five o’clock.”
“Why so, sir?” cried the marshal.
“Because it is utterly impossible.”
“Sir,” said the marshal, with a haughty air, “it is now, I believe, twenty years since you entered my service?”
“Twenty-one years, a month, and two weeks.”
“Well, sir, to these twenty-one years, a month, and two weeks, you will not add a day, nor an hour. You understand me, sir,” he continued, biting his thin lips and depressing his eyebrows; “this evening you seek a new master. I do not choose that the word impossible shall be pronounced in my house; I am too old now to begin to learn its meaning.”
The maître-d’hôtel bowed a third time.
“This evening,” said he, “I shall have taken leave of your grace, but, at least, up to the last moment, my duty shall have been performed as it should be;” and he made two steps towards the door.