"Then you still know other stories?"
Stromboli jerked his head disdainfully, saying—
"If I know other stories! When I tell you that it was I who, at the time of the Commune of Paris—— But—voyons, mon cher—I have not yet breakfasted."
I took the hint and rang the bell.
"I thank you," said Stromboli. "I will have bacon and eggs for breakfast. It is a comestible of your country for which I have acquired a taste. Though I eat while telling you my story, yet I am an artist, and you may depend upon it that my mouth will not be full at any climax of my narrative."
"Then fire ahead!" said I, and Stromboli fired ahead, plying his knife and fork diligently while he unfolded—
THE ADVENTURE OF THE FRIEND OF THE POLICEMAN.
"You think it singular that a revolutionist should have feelings of friendship for a policeman? Singular it is, and only possible upon one condition—that the policeman's daughter is beautiful, and that the revolutionist is in love with her. I myself—I, whom policemen yesterday pursued through the kitchen and offices to the back door, was at the time of the siege of Paris in love with the daughter of a sergent de ville.
"Her name was Fifine, and she was more beautiful than I can tell you—dark, with bright eyes, and a complexion like a peach in bloom, and the tender, coaxing manner which a man delights in. Her father, the Père Dubois, occupied an apartment in the same house with me at Montmartre; and as he was aware of my desire for the regeneration of the world, ferocious pleasantries used to pass between us.
"'Voyons, rascal!' he used to say to me. 'If it were not that Fifine would cry, I would march you straight off to the depôt and have you locked up there, so that you could do no harm.'