“Who!—can you doubt it?—Bonaparte himself. What other man in France would venture to pronounce so authoritatively on the prospects and the intentions of the nation?”
“Or who,” said the abbé, in his dry manner, “could speak with such accuracy of the 'Illustrious and Magnanimous Chief 'that rules her destinies?”
“It is growing late,” said the préfet, with the air of one who took no pleasure in the conversation, “and I start for Rouen to-morrow morning.”
“Come, come, préfet! one bumper before we part,” said Be Beauvais. “Something has put you out of temper this evening; yet I think I know a toast can restore you to good-humor again.”
The old man lifted his hand with a gesture of caution, while he suddenly directed a look towards me.
“No, no; don't be afraid,” said De Beauvais, laughing; “I think you 'll acquit me of any rashness. Fill up, then; and here let us drink to one in the old palace of the Tuileries who at this moment can bring us back in memory to the most glorious days of our country.”
“Pardieu! that must be the First Consul, I suppose,” whispered the abbé, to the prefet, who dashed his glass with such violence on the table as to smash it in a hundred pieces.
“See what comes of impatience!” cried De Beauvais, laughing. “And now you have not wherewithal to pledge my fair cousin the 'Rose of Provence.'”
“The Rose of Provence!” said each in turn; while, excited by the wine, of which I had drunk freely, and carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, I re-echoed the words in such a tone as drew every eye upon me.
“Ah! you know my cousin, then?” said De Beauvais,—looking at me with a strange mixture of curiosity and astonishment.