“Voyaging, like yourself, to the East, my dear Marquis,” replied I.
“Ah, bah! That is an old joke. I never was nearer Egypt than the Bois de Boulogne; however, I did manage to mystify the good public about the baths of Alexandria. But how came you here just now? Dix mille tonnerres! They told me you had been made pair d’Angleterre.”
“Why, no; not exactly. There was some talk of it, I believe. But jealousy—jealousy, you know—”
“Ah, yes,—I comprehend! Ce vilain Palmerston, n’est-ce pas? But that is always the way; ministers are always the same. You will hardly credit it, my dear friend, but I—I with my ancient title—and the most popular author of France, am not even a member of the Chamber of Deputies!”
“You amaze me!”
“Yes—after all, you manage better in England. There is that little D’Israeli—very clever man—Monceton Milles, Bourring, and Wakeley, all in the legislature; while here the literary interest is altogether unrepresented.”
“Surely, my dear Marquis, you forget—there’s Lamartine.”
“Lamartine! a mere sentimentalist—a nobody! No, my dear friend; France must be regenerated. The daughter of glory, she cannot live without progression.”
“How, Marquis? I thought that you and Montpensier—”