Robichon bowed his acknowledgments.
"Sit down, monsieur Roux, do not stand! Let me offer you some wine. I am forbidden to touch it myself. I am a poor host, but my age must be my excuse."
"To be the guest of monsieur le marquis," murmured Robichon, "is a privilege, an honour, which—er—"
"Ah," sighed the Marquis. "I shall very soon be in the Republic where all men are really equals and the only masters are the worms. My reason for requesting you to come was to speak of your unfortunate experiences—of a certain unfortunate experience in particular. You referred in your lecture to the execution of one called 'Victor Lesueur.' He died game, hein?"
"As plucky a soul as I ever dispatched!" said Robichon, savouring the burgundy.
"Ah! Not a tremor? He strode to the guillotine like a man?"
"Like a hero!" said Robichon, who knew nothing about him.
"That was fine," said the Marquis; "that was as it should be! You have never known a prisoner to die more bravely?" There was a note of pride in his voice that was unmistakable.
"I shall always recall his courage with respect," declared Robichon, mystified.
"Did you respect it at the time?"