ou 'll find no ready listener
in me. The highest favor I aspire to is the praise of our great chief,
General Bonaparte; and here I pledge his health."

"I'll drink no more wine to-night," said he, sulkily pushing his glass
before him. "Is this to be my bed?"

"Of course not; mine is ready for you. I 'll rest on the sofa there, for
I shall have to visit my pickets by daybreak."

"In Heaven's name, for what?" said he, with a half sneer. "What can
that poor Savary be dreaming of? Is there any one about to steal
the staircase of the Louvre, or the clock from the pavilion of the
Tuileries? Or is it the savants of the Institute he 's afraid of
losing?"

"Rail on, my good friend; you 'll find it very hard to make an old
scholar of the Polytechnique think poorly of the man that gains
battles."

"Well, well, I give up my faith in physiognomy. Do you remember that
same evening in the Tuileries when I asked your pardon, and begged to be
your friend? I thought you a different fellow then from what I see you
now; that silly hussar pelisse has turned many a head before yours."

"You wish to make me angry, De Beauvais, and you 'll not succeed. A
night's rest will bring you to better temper with all the world."

"Will it, faith! In that case a tolerably large portion of it must take
leave of it before morning; for I promise you, my worthy hussar, there
are some I don't expect to feel so very charitably towards as you
expect."

"Well, well! What say you to bed?"

"I 'll sleep where I am," said he, with some harshness in his tone.
"Good-night."

The words were scarcely uttered when he turned on his side, and, shading
his eyes from the light with his hand, fell fast asleep.

It was already past midnight, and as I was fatigued with my day's
walking, I soon retired to my bed, but not to rest. Whenever I closed
my eyes, Beauvais's pale and worn face seemed before me,--the haggard
expression of suffering and privation. And then I fell to thinking what
enterprise of danger could involve him in such necessities as these. It
must be one of peril, or he had not become what now I saw him. His very
voice was changed,--its clear, manly tone was now harsh and dissonant;
his frank and cheerful look was downcast and suspicious.

At last, worn out with thinking, I fell asleep; but was suddenly
awakened by a voice shouting from the outer room. I sat up and listened.
It was De Beauvais, calling wildly for help; the cry grew fainter, and
so