Tournay told him. His friend stepped to the fireplace.
"What are you going to do?" inquired Tournay.
"I make it a point never to keep anything with writing on it. It may be a tradition of my profession, for on the stage trouble always lurks in written documents. We must burn this."
"Do not be so hasty, Gaillard; you may burn it after I have committed those names to memory."
"Then I will put it here on the chimney-piece for the present. Don't carry it about you. It is a dangerous paper in times like these."
"Very well, I will be guided by your counsels. And just at this moment you advise dining, do you not?" and Tournay turned to the dish on the table. "It has a very agreeable odor. What is it?"
"The menu, to-day, consists of three courses; bread, salt, and,"—here the actor removed the cover of the dish with a flourish—"rabbit ragout."
"Will you assure me that the rabbit did not mew at the prospect of being turned into a ragout?" inquired Tournay, holding out his plate while Gaillard heaped it with the stew.
"You will have to ask the cook, my little war-god. When I delivered to her the material in its natural state it consisted of two little gray tailless animals with long ears; but to exonerate her, I call your attention to the house-cat at this moment poking her nose in at the door. And let me say further, that whether it be cat or rabbit you seem to be able to dispose of a goodly quantity of it."
"My dear Gaillard, I am a soldier and can eat anything," was Tournay's rejoinder.