"True. We Frenchmen are worse than the Irish. I sometimes doubt if we are really fit for self-government; don't you know?"
"Mon ami, you are improving rapidly," she replied, with a meaning smile,—"why not others?"
"I—I—mille diables!"
"What! Another?"
"Worse!"
He slammed his fist upon the table in sudden passion.
"It is very provoking, but——"
"Read it!" he said, dejectedly.
She read beneath a Lyon date-line, in a small, crabbed, round hand,—
"You are not only a scoundrel, but a traitor, and you dishonor the mother who bore you as you betray the country which gives you shelter and protection."