“Colonel, my two friends here, Renard and Potel, will call to-morrow on—”
“—on Mignonnet and Carpentier,” answered Philippe, cutting short Max’s sentence, and motioning towards his two neighbors.
“Now,” said Max, “let us go on with the toasts.”
The two adversaries had not raised their voices above the tone of ordinary conversation; there was nothing solemn in the affair except the dead silence in which it took place.
“Look here, you others!” cried Philippe, addressing the soldiers who stood behind the officers; “remember that our affairs don’t concern the bourgeoisie—not a word, therefore, on what goes on here. It is for the Old Guard only.”
“They’ll obey orders, colonel,” said Renard. “I’ll answer for them.”
“Long live His little one! May he reign over France!” cried Potel.
“Death to Englishmen!” cried Carpentier.
That toast was received with prodigious applause.
“Shame on Hudson Lowe,” said Captain Renard.