Supper was quickly prepared, and, in its splendour and profusion, pronounced, by both the guests, worthy of a king. Villaret could do these things handsomely, and as he was told expense was of no consequence, the entertainment was really magnificent. Nor was the spirit of the guests inferior to the feast. They were brilliant in wit, and overflowing in candour; concealing nothing of their past lives that would amuse or interest, each vied with the other in good stories and ludicrous adventures—all their bygone vicissitudes so pleasantly contrasting with the brilliant future they now saw opening before them. They drank long life and reign to the King of Westphalia in bumpers of foaming champagne.
The pleasant hours flew rapidly past—bright visions of the time to come lending their charm to the happiness, and making their enjoyment seem but the forerunner of many days and nights of festive delight. At last came day-break, and, even by the flickering of reason left, they saw it was time to separate.
“Bring the bill,” said Jerome to the exhausted-looking waiter, who speedily appeared with a small slip of paper ominously marked “eight hundred francs.”
“Diable!” exclaimed Jerome; “that is smart, and I have no money about me. Come, Brissole, this falls among your duties—pay the fellow.”
“Parbleu, then—it comes somewhat too soon. I am not yet installed, and have not got the key of our treasury.”
“No matter—pay it out of thine own funds.”
“But I have none—save this;” and he produced two francs, and some sous in copper.
“Well, then, Chopard must do it.”
“I have not as much as himself,” said Chopard.
“Send the landlord here,” said Jerome; but indeed the command was unnecessary, as that functionary had been an anxious listener at the door to the very singular debate.