"Morning or evening?"
"Whichever you prefer; though it is really better to wind it in the morning."
"Why so?"
"Because one may be drunk in the evening, Monsieur Rousseau, and break the mainspring."
Rousseau was caught this time; he left, promising the watchmaker his custom—a promise he never fulfilled, bearing in mind the watchmaker's retort.
It will be seen that when Romieu became first a sub-prefect and then a prefect he could not continue this kind of pleasantry; nevertheless, I understand that the old Adam in him would crop out from time to time, for it is very difficult to efface natural propensities, which, according to the poet of Auteuil, will persist in returning full tilt.
So it is related that one night the sub-prefect was returning home at eleven o'clock, after supper;—when Romieu was in Paris and took supper out he never returned home until the following morning; but every creature knows, alas! that Paris is not the provinces!—and he caught sight of three or four street lads belonging to the district, busy throwing stones at the complimentary street lamp that was always lit in front of the sous-préfecture; however, as it was not Paris, but only a provincial town, the young guttersnipes were country lubbers, and had already thrown four or five stones without being able to touch the spot. The sub-prefect saw them without being seen and shrugged his shoulders. Finally, being totally unable to contain himself at the sight of such clumsiness, he came up to them, took his place in the midst of the astonished urchins, picked up the first stone he saw, threw it—and behold, lo!—the lamp ceased to be a lamp. "That is how it should be done, messieurs," he said, and he entered his house, muttering—
"Oh! the young folk of to-day are a degenerate lot!"
Sometimes, too, M. le préfet, in his brave braided coat of office, would condescend to be gluttonous,—for who does not have his bad moments? even the wisest sin seven times a day, so surely the intellectual man may make a beast of himself once a year.
Henri Monnier, the witty caricaturist, charming creator of proverbes and friend of all, when passing through Périgueux, went to call on his old comrade Romieu and invited himself to dinner that day. M. le préfet gave a formal dinner party, the guests being mostly departmental officials, the stiffest and most punctilious he could find. It took a great deal to overawe Henri Monnier; he chattered away, told all sorts of tales just as freely as if he had been in his own house, or in yours or in mine; in other words, he was delightful. But he noticed that, although he persistently addressed Romieu in familiar language, Romieu was equally persistent in being formal with him.