"Really?"
"Here it is!"
"Quick, let me see it!"
I handed it to him. M. Villenave rushed up to the window.
"Yes, it is genuine," he said; "there is the u!... Oh! there is his very own u, there is no doubt about it. Let us see: '29 vendémiaire, year IV,' that is it!... Stop, stop!" He went to a box. "See, here is one of frimaire in the same year, signed 'Bonaparte, 12 frimaire'; so it must have been between 29 vendémiaire and 12 frimaire that he dropped his u; this determines a great historic question!"
While this monologue was being carried on, I had been glancing round the bedchamber thoroughly, and I had noticed that the only piece of furniture that was not encumbered with books was the arm-chair from which he had just risen. After M. Villenave had carefully examined the autograph, he put it into a white wrapper, wrote on the wrapper, placed it in a box, put the box in its place and flung himself back into his arm-chair, with a sigh of joy.
"Ah! now, sit down," he said.
"I should like nothing better," I replied; "but what do you mean me to sit on?"
"Why, on the couch."
"Oh yes, on the couch!"