"Oh! dear good Dumas!" he cried. "I know how very much he longs to see me; and I him. We were always such great friends. Where is he? where is he?"
And darting into the room he flung himself upon the bed, clasped my father in his arms and hugged him almost to suffocation.
My father endeavoured to speak, but St. Georges did not give him time.
"Ah!—and you wanted then to kill me, Dumas?" he said. "To kill me—me? To kill St. Georges? Is it possible? Why, you are my own son! Were St. Georges dead, no other man but you could replace him. Be quick and get up! Order me a cutlet, and let there be an end to all this nonsense."
At first my father was strongly inclined to pursue the quarrel to the bitter end; but what could you say to a man who threw himself on your bed, embraced you, called you his son, and invited himself to lunch?
My father held out his hand and said:
"Ah! you ruffian, you may well be pleased to call me your successor instead of being the successor of the former minister of war; for I promise you I would have hung you!"
"Oh! but surely you would have guillotined me," said St. Georges, laughing at the wrong side of his mouth.
"Not a bit of it, not a bit of it! Only honest folk are guillotined nowadays; thieves are hung."
"Now tell me frankly what were your intentions in coming to see me?" said St. Georges.