Two hours later, they carried Becquet home.
One night, I met Becquet in one of those marvellous states of intoxication that he alone could carry off in such lordly style. It was on the 21st of January.
"What!" said I to him, "drunk on this day of all days, Becquet?"
"May I ask if there is, perchance, any day on which a man may not be drunk if he likes?" asked the author of Mouchoir bleu in amazement.
"Certainly, I should have thought there was, especially for you who are a Royalist, it being the anniversary of the death of Louis XVI."
Becquet seemed to reflect for an instant over the gravity of my observation; then, placing a hand on my shoulder—
"If they had not cut off the head of good King Louis XVI., do you suppose he would be dead now?"
"It is more than probable."
"Well, then," said Becquet, carelessly snapping his fingers, "how can you say anything to me?"