It was now that he became aware for the first time of another fact unknown to him until this: that he was a great talker. And of another fact, more general in its application, that to enjoy talking one must be en rapport with the person to whom one is talking.
This latter fact was borne in upon him by the voice of Ferminard.
Ferminard, who had also finished his dinner, seemed now in a sprightly mood, to judge by the voice that came to Rochefort, a voice which came literally from under his bed.
“Monsieur de Rochefort,” said the voice, “are you there, Monsieur de Rochefort?”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Rochefort, who had started on his elbow at this sudden interruption of his thoughts. “Am I here? Where else would I be? Yes, I am here—what do you wish?”
“Ma foi! nothing but a little quiet conversation.” Rochefort laughed.
“A little quiet conversation—why, your voice comes to me like the voice of a dog grumbling under my bed. How can one converse under such circumstances? But go on, talk as much as you please, I have nothing to do but listen.”
“Well, Monsieur de Rochefort, you are not encouraging, but I will do my best; it is better to talk to a bad listener than to talk to no one, and it is better to talk to no one than not to talk at all. Let us talk, then, of Monsieur Rousseau’s absurd comedy with music attached to it, which at the instigation of M. de Coigny he produced at Versailles.”
“Good heavens, no! What do you take me for—a music-master? If you cannot talk on reasonable subjects, then be dumb. Let me talk of getting out of this infernal castle of Vincennes, which, it seems to me, I was a fool to have entered. Have you that big sou upon you, M. Ferminard?”
“Yes, M. de Rochefort, it is in my pocket.”