“So much the worse for you,” said Brissole, gaily; “I’ve tried it for five years, and will try it no longer. I was vaudevillist, journalist, novelist, feuilletonist—I was the glory of the Odéon—the prop of the ‘Moniteur’—the hope of the ‘Siècle’—and look at me——”
“And thou?” said the fashionable, addressing him called Chopard.
“I have just had a little opera damned at Lyons, and have come up to try what can be done here.”
“Poor devil!” exclaimed Brissole, shrugging his shoulders; then, turning abruptly towards the other, he said, “And what is thy luck? for, so far as externals go, thou seemest to have done better.”
“Ay, Jerome,” chimed in Chopard, “tell us, how hast thou fared?—thou wert ever a fortunate fellow.”
“Pretty well,” said he, laughing. “I’ve just come from St. Cloud—they’ve made me King of Westphalia!”
“The devil they have!” exclaimed Chopard; “and dost know, par hazard, where thy kingdom lies on the map?”
“Why should he torment himself about that?” said Brissole. “It’s enough to know they have capital hams there.”
“What if we sup together,” said Jerome, “and taste one? I am most anxious to baptize my new Royalty in a glass of wine. Here we are in the Rue Taibout—this is Villaret’s. Come in, gentlemen—I’m the host. Make your minds easy about the future: you, Brissole, I appoint to the office of my Private Secretary. Chopard, you shall be Maître de Chapelle.”
“Agreed,” cried the others gaily; and with a hearty shake of hands was the contract ratified.