“Thank you, dear madame; you are very kind. I must consult first—”
“M. le Baron Léopold!” called out the servant. Mme. Léopold started, and with a discreet pressure of the hand moved away and joined the group gathered round Mrs. Redacre’s sofa.
“Who expected to see you appear this evening, legislator? I thought you were at headquarters governing the country,” said Col. Redacre, propelling reluctant Balaklava to meet the deputy.
“I have just come from the Intérieur, where we have been holding a little private council,” said M. Léopold, a fine, solid sort of man, whom you might fire jokes at for an hour with impunity, so well encased was he in good-natured self-approval.
Everybody was glad when he appeared, for the deputy was delighted to see everybody, was always in good temper, and always had some bit of pleasant news—news, that is, that he considered pleasant. In person he was the very opposite of his son Léon; very stout, and tall in proportion, florid in complexion, a shining bald head, and bland, fussy manners. This evening he looked big with some mighty intelligence.
“What news? Are we to have war or not?” asked Mr. Kingspring, who with several others crowded round the deputy.
“I myself think we are,” he replied; “but I have been talking with Canrobert, and he thinks it will blow off.”
“Quel malheur!” said a voice from behind him. It was Léon’s.
“Ah! you soldiers call it a misfortune when you miss the chance of having your heads blown off.”
“Or our legs, which is much worse,” growled Col. Redacre; “when a man is shot at all he ought to be shot outright.”