“We have forgotten our purses, Villaret,” said Jerome, in the easy tone his last ten hours of royalty suggested; “but we will send your money when we reach home.”
“I have no doubt of it, gentlemen,” said the host, obsequiously; “but it would please me still better to receive it now—particularly as I have not the honour of knowing the distinguished company.”
“The distinguished company is perfectly satisfied to know you: the cuisine was excellent,” hiccupped Brissole.
“And the wine unexceptionable.”
“The champagne might have been a little more frappé,” said Brissole; “the only improvement I could suggest.”
“Perhaps there was a nuance, only a nuance, too much citron in the rognons à la broche, but the filets de sole were perfect.”
“If I had the happiness of knowing ‘Messieurs,’” said Villaret, “I should hope, that at another time I might be more fortunate in pleasing them.”
“Nothing easier,” said Chopard. “I am Maître de Chapelle to the King of Westphalia.”
Villaret bowed low.
“And I am the Private Secretary and Privy Purse of his majesty.”