I returned to my quarters, this second time even more filled with admiration than on the first occasion; only, as I knew my way, I dispensed with the expense of a cab. Besides, my way was nearly the same as General Verdier's to the faubourg Montmartre; he left me at the corner of the rue Coquillière, shaking my hand and wishing me good luck.
Next day, at ten, I presented myself at General Foy's. He lived at No. 64 rue du Mont-Blanc. I was shown into his study, and found him engaged upon his Histoire de la Péninsule. As I entered he was writing, standing against a table which could be lowered or raised as required. Round him, on chairs, on arm-chairs, on the floor, were scattered, in apparent confusion, speeches, proofs, maps and open books. When the general heard the door of his sanctum open he turned round. General Foy was, at that time, a man of about forty-eight or fifty years of age, thin, short rather than tall, with scanty grey hair, a projecting forehead, an aquiline nose and a bilious complexion. He carried his head high, his manner was short and his gestures commanding. I was announced.
"M. Alexandre Dumas!" he repeated after the servant; "let him come in."
I appeared before him, trembling all over.
"Are you M. Alexandre Dumas?" he asked.
"Yes, General."
"Are you the son of General Dumas who commanded the Army of the Alps?"
"Yes, General."
"I have been told that Bonaparte treated him very unjustly and that this injustice was extended to his widow."
"He left us in poverty."