An author of “costume” romances passes. His studiously cultivated resemblance to Napoleon III. usually earns him a buzz of acknowledgment. This morning he moves amid the chill of unrecognition, and raises his prominent moustache fiercely and rudely as he glares at my companion, who usurps all homage.
“That fellow stares in an unwarrantable manner,” says O’Hagan; and taking my arm, he proceeds in the same direction.
We overtake the author, despite my lagging footsteps; for I perceive that my friend is bent upon some extravagant act.
“Pardon me, sir!”
The author turns, glaring.
“But are you connected with the house of Buonaparte?”
The author, puzzled, faintly gratified:
“Not directly, sir. But what——”
“I regret that, sir. I cherish an antipathy from the family which I may term hereditary. Your reply deprives me of the pleasure of trimming your moustachios!”
The man is stricken speechless. It is such an encounter as he has portrayed (on paper) a score of times. But in the actuality it finds him lacking.