eems to have been honest. He determined to call and pay his respects to
the great poet. He accordingly repaired to the hotel of The Eagle, asked
for M. de Chateaubriand, and was informed by the waiter in a
matter-of-fact voice that M. de Chateaubriand was not then at the hotel,
as he had "gone to feed his ducks."

At this strange announcement Dumas stared. He suppressed his curiosity,
nevertheless, left his name and address, and duly received on the next
morning a polite note from Chateaubriand inviting him to come and
breakfast with him at ten.

The invitation was gladly accepted, not, however, without a tremor of
awe on the part of the youthful author. Even in old age, poverty, exile
and forgotten by the world, Chateaubriand was to him the impersonation
of grandeur. He trembled at the very thought of approaching this "mighty
rock upon which the waves of envy had in vain beaten for fifty
years"--this grand genius whose "immense superiority wellnigh crushed
him." His demeanor, therefore, he declares, when shown into
Chateaubriand's presence, must have appeared exceedingly awkward.
Nevertheless, the cordial courtesy of the exile speedily restored his
self-possession, and they proceeded to breakfast, conversing meanwhile
upon political affairs, the news from France, and other topics of
national interest to the old poet. Dumas represents him as simple,
cordial, grave, yet unreserved. He was gray, but preserved his imposing
carriage.

When breakfast was over, and they had conversed for some time upon
French affairs, Chateaubriand rose and said with great simplicity, "Now
let us go and feed my ducks."

At these words Dumas looked with surprise at his host, and after
hesitating an instant essayed to reach a solution of the mystery.

"The waiter informed me yesterday," he said, "that you had gone out for
that purpose. May I ask if you propose in your retirement to become a
farmer?"

In reply to this question Chateaubriand said in his tranquil voice, "Why
not? A man whose life has been, like mine, driven by caprice, adventure,
revolutions and exile toward the four quarters of the world, would be
happy, I think, to possess, not a chalet in these mountains--I do not
like the Alps--but a country-place in Normandy or Brittany. Really, I
think that this is the resource of my old age."

"Permit me to doubt it," returned Dumas. "You remember Charles V. at
Yuste. You do not belong to the class of emperors who abdicate or kings