A cold perspiration broke over my face and forehead, the drops fell heavily down my cheek, as I sat an unwilling listener of this eventful dialogue. That the fate of Europe was in the balance I knew full well; and ardently as I longed for war, the dreadful picture that rose before me damped much of my ardor; while a sense of my personal danger, if discovered where I was, made me tremble from head to foot. It was, then, with a sinking spirit, that I retraced my steps towards the salons, not knowing if my absence had not been remarked and commented on. How little was I versed in such society, where each came and went as it pleased him,—where the most brilliant beauty, the most spiritual conversationalist, left no gap by absence,—and where such as I were no more noticed than the statues that held the waxlights!
The salons were now crowded: ministers of state, ambassadors, general officers in their splendid uniforms, filled the apartments, in which the din of conversation and the sounds of laughter mingled. Yet, through the air of gayety which reigned throughout,—the tone of light and flippant smartness which prevailed,—I thought I could mark here and there among some of the ministers an appearance of excitement and a look of preoccupation little in unison with the easy intimacy which all seemed to possess. I looked on every side for the First Consul himself, but he was nowhere to be seen. Monsieur Talleyrand, however, remained: I recognized him by his soft and measured accent, as he sat beside Madame Bonaparte, and was relating some story in a low voice, at which she seemed greatly amused. I could not help wondering at the lively and animated character of features, beneath which were concealed the dark secrets of state affairs, the tangled mysteries of political intrigue. To look on him, you would have said, “There sits one whose easy life flows on, unruffled by this world's chances.”
Not so the tall and swarthy man, whose dark mustache hangs far below his chin, and who leans on the chimneypiece yonder; the large veins of his forehead are swollen and knitted, and his deep voice seems to tremble with strong emotion as he speaks.
“Pray, Monsieur, who is that officer yonder?” said I, to a gentleman beside me, and whose shoulder was half turned away.
“That,” said he, raising his glass, “that is Savary, the Minister of Police. And, pardon, you are Mr. Burke,—is 't not so?”
I started as he pronounced my name, and looking fixedly at him, recognized the antagonist with whom I was to measure swords the next morning in the Bois de Boulogne. I colored at the awkwardness of my situation; but he, with more ease and self-possession, resumed,—
“Monsieur, this is, to me at least, a very fortunate meeting. I have called twice, in the hope of seeing you this evening, and am overjoyed now to find you here. I behaved very ill to you this morning; I feel it now, I almost felt it at the time. If you will accept my apology for what has occurred, I make it most freely. My character is in no need of an affair to make me known as a man of courage; yours, there can be no doubt of. May I hope you agree with me? I see you hesitate: perhaps I anticipate the reason,—you do not know how far you can or ought to receive such an amende?” I nodded, and he continued: “Well, I am rather a practised person in these matters, and I can safely say you may.”
“Be it so, then,” said I, taking the hand he proffered, and shaking it warmly; “I am too young in the world to be my own guide, and I feel you would not deceive me.”
A gratified look, and a renewed pressure of the hand, replied to my speech.
“One favor more,—you must n't refuse me. Let us sup together. My calèche is below; people are already taking their leave here; and, if you have no particular reason for remaining—”