house in the Suburra) leaving two or three thousand sesterces per head to the citizens, ten or twelve millions to Calpurnia, and thirty or forty millions to Octavius; always the Morgan system, save that Morgan, I am sure, would die sooner than subvert to his personal needs either the silver of the Gauls or the gold of the capital. Now let us spring over eighteen centuries and come to the General Buonaparté.” And the young aristocrat, after the fashion of the enemies of the Conqueror of Italy, affected to emphasize the _u_, which Bonaparte had eliminated from his name, and the _e_, from which he had removed the accent. This affectation seemed to irritate Roland intensely. He made a movement as if to spring forward, but his companion stopped him. “Let be,” said he, “let be, Roland. I am quite sure that citizen Barjols will not say the General Buonaparté, as he calls him, is a thief.” “No, I will not say it; but there is an Italian proverb which says it for me.” “What is the proverb?” demanded the general in his companion’s stead, fixing his calm, limpid eye upon the young noble. “I give it in all its simplicity: ‘Francesi non sono tutti ladroni, ma buona parte’; which means: ‘All Frenchmen are not thieves, but--” “A good part are?” concluded Roland. “Yes, ‘Buonaparté,’” replied Alfred de Barjols. Scarcely had these insolent words left the young aristocrat’s lips than the plate with which Roland was playing flew from his hands and struck De Barjols full in the face. The women screamed, the men rose to their feet. Roland burst into that nervous laugh which was habitual with him, and threw himself back in his chair. The young aristocrat remained calm, although the blood was trickling from his brow to his cheek. At this moment the conductor entered with the usual formula: “Come! citizen travellers, take your places.” The travellers, anxious to leave the scene of the quarrel, rushed to the door. “Pardon me, sir,” said Alfred de Barjols to Roland, “you do not go by diligence, I hope?” “No, sir, I travel by post; but you need have no fear; I shall not depart.” “Nor I,” said the Englishman. “Have them unharness my horses; I shall remain.” “I must go,” sighed the dark young man whom Roland had addressed as general. “You know it is necessary, my friend; my presence yonder is absolutely imperative. But I swear that I would not leave you if I could possibly avoid it.” In saying these words his voice betrayed an emotion of which, judging from its usual harsh, metallic ring, it had seemed incapable. Roland, on the contrary, seemed overjoyed. His belligerent nature seemed to expand at the approach of a danger to which he had perhaps not given rise, but which he at least had not endeavored to avoid.