In the crises of life, men revert to their original type; so François, who called himself Le Bourgeois, suddenly and naturally became an aristocrat, such as he had been thirty years before. He tasted some potatoes, and then eyed them disdainfully.
“It isn’t the fare I mind, my good friend,” he said to the jailer, “nor yet the austere simplicity with which you serve it, but these potatoes are only half boiled, and will certainly make me ill. You should have some care for the health of your prisoners.”
The jailer sat down and laughed with unrestrained enjoyment.
“I swear,” he said, “you are such an entertaining fellow, it is a shame you are to be shot this afternoon.”
“So do I think,” responded François, attacking a morsel of very tough beef, “and I am very much surprised, too; but it is the unexpected, you know, which happens. Life is made up of one infernal blunder after another.”
The jailer was so pleased with his prisoner, he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a little flask of brandy.
“Here,” he said; “it isn’t much, but it is enough for a swig.”
“Now, this is the first satisfactory thing I have known you to do since our acquaintance began,” said François, putting the flask to his mouth and draining it dry.
“It was not indeed much,” he said, “but it was a great deal better than nothing. It will give me inspiration to finish my verses. Excuse me for hurrying through with this luxurious meal. I don’t suppose you would serve any better to Lucullus himself.”
“There is no person by that name in this prison,” replied the jailer with simple good faith, “and the same food is served to all. That poor bishop has evidently been accustomed to a good cook, and prison fare goes hard with him.”