"You have just finished a war of fifteen years," said Bonaparte again, in the most offensive of tones, almost a sneer.
The ambassador bit his lip in his effort at self-control, but he answered with great suavity:
"It is true, sir; and that was fifteen years too long."
"But you want another war of fifteen years," insisted Bonaparte, his tones every moment harsher and louder, so that every one in that part of the salon could not help but hear. All conversation ceased, and every one listened with strained and painful attention. Lord Whitworth quietly reiterated:
"Pardon me, sir; we are very desirous of peace."
Then, in a tone that rang out like the harsh clang of crossing swords, Bonaparte cried:
"I must either have Malta or war!"
A shock ran through the whole assembly. No man dared look at his neighbor. This was nothing less than a declaration of war, and in the most insulting manner. Whether the proud representative of the haughtiest nation on the globe would receive such a rude insult to himself and his country calmly was very doubtful, and we all awaited Lord Whitworth's reply in trembling silence. With compressed lips and eyes that flashed in spite of himself, but with a calmness in marked contrast to Bonaparte's petulance, he replied:
"I am not prepared, sir, to speak on that subject; and I can only assure you, Citizen First Consul, that we wish for peace."
Bonaparte's frown grew darker, but he said no more; and with a curt nod, and almost a sneer on his lips, he withdrew at once into a small cabinet opening into the salon, leaving the rest of his guests without addressing a word to them, which I was told afterward was very unusual with him, and showed that his irritation must be very great.