“And, _ma foi!_ have they not done so? Am I not a very interesting individual at this moment,--more so than any other of my life? Are not half the powdered heads of the Faubourg plotting over my downfall, and wondering how they are to secure me to the 'true cause'? Are not the hot heads of the Jacobites speculating on my admission, by a unanimous vote, into their order? And has not Fouché gone to the special expense of a new police spy, solely destined to dine at the same café, play at the same _salon_, and sit in the same box of the Opera with me? Is this nothing? Well, it will be good fun, after all, to set their wise brains on the wrong track; not to speak of the happiness of weeding one's acquaintance, which a little turn of fortune always effects so instantaneously.” “One would suppose from your manner, Duchesne, that some unlooked-for piece of good luck had befallen you; the event seems to have been the crowning one of your life.” “Am I not at liberty, boy? have I not thrown the slavery behind me? Is that nothing? You may fancy your collar, because there is some gold upon it; but, trust me, it galls the neck as cursedly as the veriest brass. Come, Burke, I must have a glass of champagne, and you must pledge me in a creaming bumper. If you don't join in the sentiment now, the time will come later on. We may be many a mile apart,--ay, perhaps a whole world will divide us; but you'll remember my toast,--'To him that is free!' I am sick of most things; women, wine, war, play,--the game of life itself, with all its dashing and existing interests,--I have had them to satiety. But liberty has its charm; even to the palsied arm and the withered hand freedom is dear; and why not to him who yet can strike?” His eyes flashed fire as he spoke, and he drained glass after glass of wine, without seeming aware of what he was doing. “If you felt thus, Duchesne, why have you remained so long a soldier?” “I 'll tell you. He who travels unwillingly along some dreary path stops often as he goes, and looks around to see if, in the sky above or the road beneath, some obstacle may not cross his way and bid him turn. The faintest sound of a brewing storm, the darkening shadow of a cloud, a swollen rivulet, is enough, and straightway he yields: so men seem swayed in life by trifles which never moved them, by accidents which came not near their hearts. These, which the world called their disappointments, were often but the pivots of their fortune. I have had enough, nay, more than enough, of all this. You must not ask the hackneyed actor of the melodrama to start at the blue lights, and feel real fear at burning forests and flaming châteaux. This mock passion of the Emperor--” “Come, my friend, that is indeed too much; unquestionably there was no feigning there.” Duchesne gave a bitter laugh, and laying his hand on my arm, said,--