ll you what it is, your friend the Emperor has no more courage than a
chicken. He is grown old, and infirm, and lazy; he knows that he can't
even mount on horseback. But if, before this day week, he has not
declared war on the Prussians, he will be lucky if he can get off as
quietly as poor Louis Philippe did under shelter of his umbrella, and
ticketed 'Schmidt.' Or could you not, M. Duplessis, send him back to
London in a bill of exchange?"

"For a man of your literary repute, M. le Vicomte," said Duplessis, "you
indulge in a strange confusion of metaphors. But, pardon me, I came here
to breakfast, and I cannot remain to quarrel. Come, Lemercier, let us
take our chance of a cutlet at the Trois Freres."

"Fox, Fox," cried Lemercier, whistling to a poodle that had followed him
into the cafe, and, frightened by the sudden movement and loud voices of
the habitues, had taken refuge under the table.

"Your dog is poltron," said De Breze; "call him Nap." At this stroke
of humour there was a general laugh, in the midst of which Duplessis
escaped, and Frederic, having discovered and caught his dog, followed
with that animal tenderly clasped in his arms.

"I would not lose Fox for a great deal," said Lemercier with
effusion; "a pledge of love and fidelity from an English lady the most
distinguished: the lady left me--the dog remains."

Duplessis smiled grimly: "What a thoroughbred Parisian you are, my dear
Frederic! I believe if the tramp of the last angel were sounding, the
Parisians would be divided into two sets: one would be singing the
Marseillaise, and parading the red flag; the other would be shrugging
their shoulders and saying, 'Bah! as if le Bon Dieu would have the bad
taste to injure Paris--the Seat of the Graces, the School of the Arts,
the Fountain of Reason, the Eye of the World;' and so be found by
the destroying angel caressing poodles and making bons mots about les
femmes."

"And quite right, too," said Lemercier, complacently; "what other people
in the world could retain lightness of heart under circumstances so
unpleasant? But why do you take things so solemnly? Of course there will
be war idle now to talk of explanations and excuses. When a Frenchman
says, 'I am insulted,' he is not going to be told that he is not
insulted. He means fighting, and not apologising. But what if there be
war? Our brave soldiers beat the Prussians--take the Rhine--return
to Paris covered with laurels; a new Boulevard de Berl