“Yes, yes!” cried Morny excitedly. “That was brave of you! And what did your uncle say?”
“Said I was a young scoundrel, and that if I wasn’t so big, and that he disliked corporal punishment, he’d give me a good thrashing to bring me to my senses.”
“And you—you—” cried Morny, grasping him by the arm, “what did you say to that?”
“Nothing at all. Only burst out laughing.”
“Burst out laughing?”
“Yes, and then Uncle Paul would grunt out ‘Humbug!’ and we were good friends again.”
The young Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Even those who worshipped him mock at the Emperor now that he is in misfortune—even you, Rodd. But I can forgive you, because you are English and the natural enemies of our great Emperor. But those of our countrymen—cowards and slaves—parasites of the new King. Lâches! Cowards! But let us talk of something else. You make me like you, Rodd. You always did, and—”
“Ah–h–h! Getting on dangerous ground. Now look here; will you come with us shooting?”
“No. I have told you why.”