"She has refused," declared the old Italian, "out of contumacy—and also, perhaps, because there is no tunnel. And, since truth must out, I'm bound to say, if I was not Commandant of the subterranean passages of the capital, I should really think there were none."
His wits came back little by little.
"Young man, you have seen the soldier reposing from his labours.
What question have you come to ask the veteran champion of freedom?"
"About Bargemont? About that portrait?"
"I know, I know. I proceeded with a dozen men to his domicile to arrest him, but he had taken to flight, the coward! I carried out a perquisition in his rooms. In the salon I saw Madame Bargemont's portrait and I said: 'That lady looks as sad as Monsieur Jean Servien. They are both victims of the infamous Bargemont; I will bring them together and they shall console each other.' Monsieur Servien, oblige me by tasting that cognac; it comes from the cellar of your odious rival."
He poured the brandy into two big glasses and hiccuped with a laugh:
"The cognac of an enemy tastes well."
Then he fell back on the sofa, muttering:
"The soldier reposing——"
His face was crimson. Jean shrugged his shoulders and left the room. He had hardly opened the door when the old man began howling in his sleep: "Help! help! they're murdering me."