I soon set before him the contents of my humble larder, and in a few moments he rallied a good deal, and looking up with a smile said,—
“I think you have been cultivating your education as gourmand since I saw you; that pasty is worthy our friend in the Palais Royal. Well, and how have you been since we met?”
“Let me rather ask yow,” said I, “You are not looking so well as the last time I saw you. Have you been ill?”
“Ill! no, not ill. Yet I can't say so; for I have suffered a good deal, too. No, my friend; I have had much to harass and distress me. I have been travelling, too, long distances and weary ones,—met some disappointments; and altogether the world has not gone so well with me as I think it ought. And now of you,—what of yourself?”
“Alas!” said I, “if you have met much to annoy, I have only lived a dull life of daily monotony. If it has had little to distress, there is fully as little to cheer; and I half suspect the fine illusions I used to picture to myself of a soldier's career had very little connection with reality.”
As De Beauvais seemed to listen with more attention than such a theme would naturally call for, I gradually was drawn into a picture of my barrack life, in which I dwelt at length on my own solitary position, and the want of that companionship which formed the chief charm of my schoolboy life. To all this he paid a marked attention,—now questioning me on some unexplained point; now agreeing with me in what I said by a word or a gesture.
“And do you know, Burke,” said he, interrupting me in my description of those whose early coldness of manner had chilled my first advances,—“and do you know,” said he, impetuously, “who these aristocrats are? The sons of honest bourgeois of Paris. Their fathers are worthy men of the Rue Vivienne or the Palais,—excellent people, I 've no doubt, but very far better judges of point lace and pâté, de Périgord than disputed precedence and armorial quarterings. Far better the others,—the humble soldiers of fortune, whose highest pride is their own daring, their own undaunted heroism. Well, well,” added he, after a pause, “I must get you away from this; I can manage it in a day or two. You shall be sent down to Versailles with a detachment.”
I could not help starting with surprise at these words, and through all the pleasure they gave me my astonishment was still predominant.
“I see you are amazed at what I say; but it is not so wonderful as you think. My cousin has only to hint to Madame Bonaparte, who is at present there, and the thing is done.”
I blushed deeply as I thought of the agency through which my wishes were to meet accomplishment, and turned away to hide my embarrassment.