‘A bed and a looking-glass, as I live!’ exclaimed De Noe, as he entered the room. ‘What a sybarite! Why, my friend, you outrage the noble precepts of our glorious Revolution by these luxurious pretensions—you insult equality and fraternity together.’
‘Let me at least conciliate liberty then,’ said Gerald gaily, ‘and ask you to feel yourself at home.’
‘How am I to call thee, mon cher?’ said De Noe, assuming the familiar second person, which I beg the reader to supply in the remainder of the interview.
‘Gerald Fitzgerald is my name.’
‘Le Chevalier Fitzgerald was just becoming a celebrity when they changed the spectacle. Ah, what a splendid engagement we all had, if we only knew how to keep it!’
‘The fault was not entirely ours,’ protested Gerald.
‘Perhaps not. The good public were growing tired of being always spectators; they wanted, besides, to see what was behind the scenes; and they found the whole machinery even more a sham than they expected, and so they smashed the stage and scattered the actors.’
Gerald had now covered the table with the materials of his frugal meal, and brought forth his last two bottles of Bordeaux, long reserved to celebrate the first piece of good fortune that might betide him.
‘It is easy to see,’ cried De Noe, ‘that you serve a Prince; your fare is worthy of Royalty, my dear Fitzgerald. If you had supped with me, your meal had been a mess of haricot, washed down with the light wines of the “Pays Latin.’”
‘And why, or how, do you suspect in whose service I am?’ asked Gerald eagerly.