The pleasant hours flew rapidly past--bright visions of the time to come lending their charm to the happiness, and making their enjoyment seem but the forerunner of many days and nights of festive delight. At last came day-break, and, even by the flickering of reason left, they saw it was time to separate. “Bring the bill,” said Jerome to the exhausted-looking waiter, who speedily appeared with a small slip of paper ominously marked “eight hundred francs.” “_Diable!_” exclaimed Jerome; “that is smart, and I have no money about me. Come, Brissole, this falls among your duties--pay the fellow.” “_Parbleu_, then--it comes somewhat too soon. I am not yet installed, and have not got the key of our treasury.” “No matter--pay it out of thine own funds.” “But I have none--save this;” and he produced two francs, and some sous in copper. “Well, then, Chopard must do it.” “I have not as much as himself,” said Chopard. “Send the landlord here,” said Jerome; but indeed the command was unnecessary, as that functionary had been an anxious listener at the door to the very singular debate. “We have forgotten our purses, Villaret,” said Jerome, in the easy tone his last ten hours of royalty suggested; “but we will send your money when we reach home.” “I have no doubt of it, gentlemen,” said the host, obsequiously; “but it would please me still better to receive it now--particularly as I have not the honour of knowing the distinguished company.” “The distinguished company is perfectly satisfied to know you: the _cuisine_ was excellent,” hiccupped Brissole. “And the wine unexceptionable.” “The champagne might have been a little more _frappé_,” said Brissole; “the only improvement I could suggest.” “Perhaps there was a _nuance_, only a _nuance_, too much citron in the _rognons à la broche_, but the _filets de sole_ were perfect.” “If I had the happiness of knowing ‘_Messieurs_,’” said Villaret, “I should hope, that at another time I might be more fortunate in pleasing them.” “Nothing easier,” said Chopard. “I am _Maître de Chapelle_ to the King of Westphalia.” Villaret bowed low. “And I am the Private Secretary and Privy Purse of his majesty.” Villaret bowed again--a slight smile of very peculiar omen flitting across his cunning features, while, turning hastily, he whispered a word in the ear of the waiter. “And this gentleman here?” said he, looking at Jerome, who, with his legs resting on a chair, was coolly awaiting the termination of the explanation. “And this gentleman, if I might make so bold, what office does he hold in his Majesty’s service?” “I am the King of Westphalia!” said Jerome. “Just as I suspected. François,” said the landlord insolently, “go fetch the gendarmes.” “No, no, _parbleu!_” said Jerome, springing up in alarm; “no gendarmes, no police. Here, take my watch--that is surely worth more than your bill? When I reach home I’ll send the money.”