As he says this, he draws himself up to show that the wreck still contains beans, as the English proverb expresses it, but the next moment the fire dies out of his eyes and he sits meditatively, looking suddenly ten years older. He did not intend me to believe his words, but to himself they have a meaning.
I am silent.
“I am one of the unemployed,” he adds, in a minute.
“I also,” I reply.
I like my neighbor; I am in need of a companion; and I tell him frankly my story. His sympathies are entirely with me.
“I'm happy to meet a young man who sticks up for the decencies nowadays,” he says. “Bring back your King, sir, give him a free hand, and set us an example in veneration and respect and all the rest of it. You'll make a clean sweep, I suppose. Guillotine, eh? Not a bad thing if used on the proper people.”
I am ashamed to confess how half-hearted my own theories of restoration are, compared with this out-and-out suggestion. I can but twist my mustache, and, looking as truculent as possible, mutter:
“Well, well, we shall see when the time comes.”
When at last he rises to leave me, he repeats with emphasis his conviction that republicanism should be trodden out under a heavy boot, and so mollified is he by my tactful treatment that as we part he even invites me into that carefully guarded room of his. It is not yet a specific invitation.
“Some day soon I'll hope to see you in my own den, mossoo. Au revoir, sir; happy to have met you.”