“You chaff, Mocquard,” replied the doctor. “I am uneasy until I know the Emperor is here, in this château, with the doors locked, under the eyes of the sentinels.”
“I chaff faute de mieux, mon cher. I am entirely of your opinion. But morality—that is not in my line. We knew nothing about it in my time. You have taken charge of it, and it could not be in better hands.”
“Well, well,” said Conneau; “let us leave him to kill himself—or to get killed!” And, growling, he put on his glasses, opened a large book which he had just received, and plunged into its pages as if he had had enough of the conversation.
“Charles,” said the Emperor, “tell Félix to send the Prince down and inquire after the Empress.”
Smoking his pipe, he paced up and down, his head sunk in his shoulders, balancing his massive body on his short, little legs, which seemed not to have been made to bear him. He stopped before the mantelpiece; the blazing fire absorbed his whole attention. He seemed to see in the red and blue sparks the reflection of the tricks played upon him by that fortune of which he was himself the most remarkable example, and he asked himself how long those petits follets would last. Suddenly a huge log broke into halves, littering the hearth. The beautiful flames were extinguished, and in their stead came a disagreeable volume of smoke. He grasped the tongs, carefully picked up the pieces of half-burnt wood, and, while amusing himself in this patriarchal manner, asked:
“What are you reading, Conneau?”
“I am not reading, Sire.”
“And this great book?”
“It is a Bible, which I bought yesterday.”
“Ah, yes, for your collection,” said the Emperor laughingly. “What language is it?”