“I demanded compensation for the loss of my picture or—satisfaction at the sword’s point.”
Ouvaroff could not help smiling at his friend’s colossal audacity.
“And General Bonaparte’s answer——?”
“Was a police order to cross the frontier within forty-eight hours.”
“You went?”
“I stayed. You see, the First Consul’s sister, the dark-eyed Pauline, with whom I had had some love passages—platonic, of course—had invited me to a ball a fortnight later. My dear Serge, how could I refuse? On the evening of the dance I presented myself, greatly to the dismay of my friends, who were aware that the First Consul was expected. I had purposely arranged to take my departure at the moment of his arrival.”
“He saw you?”
“Certainly. Figure his rage as he saw me raising Pauline’s hand to my lips as I took my leave! The music, the dancing, the conversation—all stopped. The stillness was painful. ‘Did you not receive an order to quit France a fortnight ago?’ he thundered. ‘Why have you not gone?’ ‘And did you not receive a challenge to fight a fortnight ago?’ I answered. ‘Why have you not fought?’
“He couldn’t speak for passion.
“‘As to quitting France, Citoyen Bonaparte,’ I continued, ‘in such matters as coming and going, we Courtenays are accustomed to please ourselves. I had fixed upon to-night as the time of my departure, and, as you now perceive, I—er—depart. Adieu, citoyen.’