It is the same house which stands there to-day on the right of the street at No. 60, apparently astonished to present to the eye, after so many successive changes of government, the consular fasces which may still be seen on the panels of its double oaken doors.
Let us follow the long, narrow alley of lindens that leads from the gate on the street to the door of the house; let us enter the antechamber, take the hall to the right, ascend the twenty steps that lead to a study hung with green paper, and furnished with curtains, easy chairs and couches of the same color. The walls are covered with geographical charts and plans of cities. Bookcases of maple are ranged on either side of the fireplace, which they inclose. The chairs, sofas, tables and desks are piled with books; there is scarcely any room on the chairs to sit down, or on the desks and tables to write.
In the midst of this encumbering mass of reports, letters, pamphlets and books, a man had cleared a space for himself where he was now seated, clutching his hair impatiently from time to time, as he endeavored to decipher a page of notes, compared to which the hieroglyphics on the obelisk of Luxor, would have been transparently intelligible. Just as the secretary’s impatience was approaching desperation, the door opened and a young officer wearing an aide’s uniform entered.
The secretary raised his head, and a lively expression of satisfaction crossed his face.
“Oh! my dear Roland,” said he; “you here at last! I am delighted to see you, for three reasons. First, because I am wearying for you; second, because the general is impatient for your return, and keeps up a hullaballoo about it; and third, because you can help me to read this, with which I have been struggling for the last ten minutes. But first of all, kiss me.”
And the secretary and the aide-de-camp embraced each other.
“Well,” said the latter, “let us see this word that is troubling you so, my dear Bourrienne!”
“Ah! my dear fellow, what writing! I get a white hair for every page I decipher, and this is my third to-day! Here, read it if you can.”
Roland took the sheet from the secretary, and fixing his eyes on the spot indicated, read quite fluently: “Paragraph XI. The Nile, from Assouan to a distance of twelve miles north of Cairo, flows in a single stream”—“Well,” said he, interrupting himself, “that’s all plain sailing. What did you mean? The general, on the contrary, took pains when he wrote that.”
“Go on, go on,” said Bourrienne.