“It is ten degrees above the temperature my lord always ordered,” retorted François, coolly.
“Ten degrees! Oh, you wish to remind me that the end is approaching? You do not dare deny it!” The valet shrugged his shoulders.
“But I am not gone yet.” He wagged his head cunningly and began to laugh to himself. His mind apparently rambled, for he started to chant a French love song in a voice that had long since lost its capacity for a sustained tone. The words were distinct, although the melody was broken, and the spectacle was gruesome enough. As he concluded he looked at the valet as if for approbation and began to mumble about his early love affairs.
“Bah, François,” he said shrilly, “I’ll be up to-morrow as gay as ever. Vive l’amour! vive la joie! It was a merry life we led, eh, François?”
“Merry indeed, my lord.”
“It kept you busy, François. There was the little peasant girl on the Rhine. What flaxen hair she had and eyes like the sky! Yet a word of praise––a little flattery––”
“My lord was irresistible,” said the valet with mild sarcasm.
“Let me see, François, what became of her?”
“She drowned herself in the river.”