“You are surprised at my costume,” said he, with a sad smile; “and, certes, Crillac would not court a customer habited as I am just now. But what will you say when I assure you that the outward man—and you will not accuse him of any voluptuous extravagance—has a very great advantage over the inner one? In plain words, Lieutenant, you 'd hurry your cook, if you knew I have not tasted food, save what the hedges afford, for two days: not from poverty neither; there 's wherewithal there to dine, even at Beauvilliers's.” He rattled a well-filled purse as he spoke.
“Come, come, De Beauvais! you accuse me of doing the honors with a bad grace; and, in truth, I wish I were your host outside the pickets. But let me retrieve my character a little. Taste this capon.”
“If you never dined with a wolf, you shall now,” said he, drawing his chair to the table and filling a large goblet with Burgundy.
For ten or fifteen minutes he ate on like a man whom long starvation had rendered half savage; then ceasing suddenly, he looked up, and said, “Lieutenant, the cuisine here might tempt a more fastidious man than I am; and if these people are not hospitable enough to invite you to their soiries, they certainly do not starve you at home.”
“How knew you that I was not asked to the château?” said I, reddening with a sense of offended pride I could not conceal.
“Know it? Why, man, these things are known at once. People talk of them in saloons and morning visits, and comment on them in promenades; and though I seem not to have been keeping company with the beau monde latterly, I hear what goes on there too. But trust me, boy, if your favor stands not high with the Court of to-day, you may perhaps be preparing the road to fortune with that of to-morrow.”
“Though you speak in riddle, De Beauvais, so long as I suspect that what you mean would offer insult to those I serve, let me say,—and I say it in all temper, but in all firmness,—you 'll find no ready listener in me. The highest favor I aspire to is the praise of our great chief, General Bonaparte; and here I pledge his health.”
“I'll drink no more wine to-night,” said he, sulkily pushing his glass before him. “Is this to be my bed?”
“Of course not; mine is ready for you. I 'll rest on the sofa there, for I shall have to visit my pickets by daybreak.”
“In Heaven's name, for what?” said he, with a half sneer. “What can that poor Savary be dreaming of? Is there any one about to steal the staircase of the Louvre, or the clock from the pavilion of the Tuileries? Or is it the savants of the Institute he 's afraid of losing?”