“My lord, are you well?––”
The marquis flew into a rage and the valet placed an imported weed in his master’s hand.
“A light, François!”
The valet obeyed. For a moment the strong cigar seemed to soothe the old man, although his hand shook like an aspen as he held it.
“Now, bring me my Voltaire,” commanded the marquis. “The volume on the table, idiot! Ah! here is what I wish: ‘It takes twenty years to bring man from the state of embryo, and from that of a mere criminal, as he is in his first infancy, to the point when 356 his reason begins to dawn. It has taken thirty centuries to know his structure; it would take eternity to know something of the soul; it takes but an instant to kill him.’ But an instant; but an instant!” he repeated.
He puffed feebly at the cigar.
“It is cold here, François.”
The servant consulted the thermometer.
“It is five degrees warmer than you are accustomed to, my lord,” he replied.
“Bring me the thermometer,” commanded the old man. “You should not lie, François. It is a bad fault in servants. Leave it to your masters; it is a polite vice. The privilege of the world’s potentates, diplomats and great people. Never fall into the rut of lying, François, or you will soon outlive your usefulness as a valet.”