I now see what he foresaw. Not only was France not fit for war, but Paris was not fit to meet defeat. He foresaw it all, the Commune, houses torn to pieces, the Column Vendôme lying on the ground, the muffled drums, the firing-parties, the trenches filled with dead. He foresaw it all, yet made one great mistake. He imagined the whole of France to be as rotten as Paris. But then he was a boulevardier, and for him Paris was France. "Well," I said, "I am not a politician, so the morals of politics do not affect me. France has been my mother: if she is threatened by calamity, I will remain with her. I have eaten her bread; my father and my grandfather fought in her wars; every penny I possess comes to me from her; and were I to leave her now I would feel dishonoured. Besides, I have business to attend to. You remember the appointment I have to meet on the 5th of July." I really believe the old gentleman had quite forgotten about the duel. "Ah!" said he. "Lichtenberg." And he struck his knee with his fist. Then he got up and paced the room in deep thought. Then, turning to me, he smiled. "Yes," he said, "I had forgotten. This affair will keep you in Paris; but when it is over, please to remember my advice and my address in England." "When it is over," replied I, "I may be dead." "Oh, no," said the Vicomte; "you will not be dead. At least"--and here he smiled again--"not in my opinion." CHAPTER XXXV A LESSON WITH THE FOILS He departed for Auvergne next day, he and Beril, and a pile of luggage. A number of people saw him off from the station, including myself. They did not see a rat leaving a sinking ship: they saw a jovial old gentleman, with a cigar in his mouth, entering a first-class carriage, a nobleman departing to visit his estates. He was to be back in a month, so he said; and the last I saw of him was a jovial red face, and a hand waving a copy of the "Charivari" to the little crowd of friends he had left on the platform. There was a touch of humour in that; and I could not help laughing, as I turned home, at this man, so great in some ways, so little in others, so kind, so heartless, so bad, so good; and such a perfect "shuffler." He was by nature, above all things, an escaper from difficulties. I could not help remembering how he had shuffled out of the painful duty of breaking the news of my father's death to me; how he had shuffled out of the responsibility of my education and bringing up; a hundred other instances occurred to me, leading up to this last business of shuffling out of France at the first scent of disaster. I am nearly sure that had he been with the army he would have found some means of shuffling it out of the trap at Sedan; at all events, I am perfectly certain he would have escaped himself.