“That’s their fraternity, I suppose! If I thought he was an operative, I’d be off in the twinkling of a billy-roller. But it’s all a hoax. Do you know, I think he’s very like a certain noble—”
Here an aide-de-camp, booted and spurred, dashed into the apartment.
“General! you are wanted immediately: the émeute has begun, half Paris is rushing to arms, and they are singing the Marseillaise through the streets!”
“Anything else?” said the General, who, with inimitable sang froid, was sipping a tumbler of orgeat.
“Guizot has resigned.”
“Bravo!” cried the little gentleman above referred to—and he cut a caper that might have done credit to Vestris. “Bravo! there is some chance for capable men now.”
“I was told,” continued the aide-de-camp, “as I came along, that Count Molé had been sent for.”
“Molé! bah! an imbecile!” muttered the diminutive statesman. “It was not worth a revolution to produce such a miserable result.”
“And what say the people?” asked our host.