My passion was ridiculous enough; for I had not the slightest idea in the world what the word aristocrat meant. Nevertheless, it had its effect, although that might have been lost for want of witnesses, had not Madame Michaud entered the room at the moment, to see that everything was properly provided for her honored guests.
“There, Monsieur Le Commissaire,” she said, “I think you have got your answer. You do not expect to find aristocrats in my house, I suppose.”
“I have found one,” answered the commissary, nodding his head; “and he will find soon that he is discovered. Shake hands, citizen, if you are really and truly a lover of your country and the rights of man. But mind, you don’t presume to touch my hand if you are only shamming a love of freedom.”
I placed my hand in his boldly, and shook it warmly; for I had as little idea of that in which true freedom consists as most of his patient followers in the political career, who, with very rare exceptions, were devout worshipers of words, with a very indefinite notion, indeed, of things.
He was satisfied, it seemed, and sat down to take a cup of coffee and drink a glass of liqueur with Madame Michaud—without paying for them. Indeed, he seemed upon very amicable terms with the lady, and I strongly suspect that it was good policy in all hostesses of Paris, not to refuse any thing that commissaries of police might think fit to demand.
Shortly after, Father Bonneville made his appearance, and although he answered all civil interrogatories, he played his part so discreetly, that no suspicion seemed to be aroused.
The commissary quitted the room in jovial good-humor, and the rest of the evening passed without any thing remarkable.
About this time, the images which memory presents in her long looking-glass, are somewhat vague, and ill-defined—perhaps I have not had the opportunity of refreshing my remembrance as to the minute details, and many a scene stands out in strong relief from a picture generally dark and obscure. Only one of those scenes will I notice here, before I go on to matters more immediately affecting myself.
There was what is called a table d’hôte at the inn where we stayed—a great accommodation to travelers—which is now very common, though in the time I speak of, it was more customary to lodge in what is called an hôtel garni, and to obtain one’s food from without. One day, I know not whether it was the second or third after our arrival, we were seated at the dinner-table in the hall, when the same commissary of police I have mentioned, entered the room, and slowly looked round the guests. I could see many a changing countenance at the table—some rosy faces which became white, and warm, glowing lips, which partook of on ashy paleness. The commissioner, however, fixed his eyes upon one particular gentleman, a man, perhaps, of fifty-seven or fifty-eight years of age, who had been one of the lightest and gayest of the guests. He saw the peculiar look of the officer, and probably understood its meaning completely; but he staid to finish quietly the joke which hung upon his lips, and then asked with the laugh still ringing around him—
“Mister commissary, is your business with me?”