“Sire,” said the bookbinder in a humble voice, “now your time is come, and mine runs out. I do not exactly know what has happened on this eighteenth of Brumaire in Saint Cloud, but one thing I know: Buonaparte has taken the helm.”
“Jaques,” answered the nobleman, “I do not wish to hurt your feelings, but I cannot conceal my joy.”
“Don’t conceal it, sire! You have saved me from the scaffold, and I have saved you; let us thank each other, and be quits.”
“To think that this bloody drama is ended—that this madness....”
“Sire, don’t speak so.”
His eyes began to sparkle, but he quickly changed his tone. “Let us eat our last meal together, but in love like fellow-men; let us talk of the past, and then part in peace. This evening we are still brothers, but to-morrow you are the lord and I am the servant.”
“You are right. To-day I am an emigrant, tomorrow I am a count.”
The old man brought out a cold fowl, a cheese, and a bottle of wine, and both took their places at the table.
“This wine, sire, was bottled in ‘89. It has a history, and therefore....”
“Have you no white wine? I do not like red.”