“Ah, true, very true,” said he, hurriedly, while he bustled about the room, examining the furniture, and inspecting the decorations most narrowly. “Capital service this must be,” muttered he, between his teeth; “not much pay, I fancy, but a deal of plunder and private robbery.”
“I cannot say much on that head,” said I, laughing outright at what he intended for a soliloquy; “but I must confess I have no reason to complain of my lot.”
“Egad! I should think not,” rejoined he; “better than Old George's Street. Well, well, I wish I were but back there,—that's all.”
“Come, sit down to your breakfast; and perhaps when we talk it over some plan may present itself for your exchange.”
How thoroughly had I forgotten my friend when I uttered the sentiment; for scarcely was he seated at table, when he launched out, as of old, into one of his visionary harangues,—throwing forth dark hints of his own political importance, and the keen watch the Emperor had set upon his movements.
“No, my friend, the thing is impossible,” said he, ominously. “Nap. knows me; he knows my influence with the Tories. To let me escape would be to blow all his schemes to the winds. I am destined for the 'Temple,' if not for the guillotine.”
The solemnity of his voice and manner at this moment was too much for me, and I laughed outright.
“Ay, you may laugh; so does Anna Maria.”
“And is Miss Bubbleton here, too?”
“Yes; we are both here,” ejaculated he, with a deep sigh. “Rue Neuve des Capucines, No. 46, four flights above the entresol! Ay, and in that entresol they have two spies of Fouché's police; I know them well, though they pretend to be hairdressers. I'm too much for old Fouché yet; depend upon it, Tom.”