“Certainly, Monsieur.”
“Hock! hoch!” said Henri, lifting his glass.
“Hock! hoch!” responded the ex-jailer, drinking with his former prisoner.
This delicate toast began to appease the bitterness of the good man; while the memories of his escape, offering a diversion to Henri’s mind, put him in sympathetic humor with the stranger.
“‘Ah! There are mountains that we never climb but once,’” he said. “We three, meeting in Paris, can prove the truth of that proverb.”
“Not only in Paris,” said Lenaieff. “If you were in Saint Petersburg, Henri, you might, any evening, see your old flame, Fanny Dorville.”
“Does she keep a table d’hote?”
“No, indeed, my boy. She plays duenna at the Theatre Michel, as that fat Heloise used to do at the Palais-Royal. She must have died long ago, that funny old girl!”
“Not at all. She is still living, and is a pensioner of the Association of Dramatic Artists! But, pardon me, our conversation can hardly be amusing to our guest.”
“No one can keep a Frenchman and a Russian from talking about women! The habit is stronger than themselves!” said the old officer, with a hearty laugh.