ruefully, "that my costume will not look so
well a day or two hence. I have just had news that will no doubt seem
very glorious--in the news papers. But then newspapers are not subjected
to cannonballs."

"What do you mean?" answered De Breze.

"I met, as I emerged from my apartment a few minutes ago, that
fire-eater, Victor de Mauleon, who always contrives to know what passes
at headquarters. He told me that preparations are being made for a great
sortie. Most probably the announcement will appear in a proclamation
tomorrow, and our troops march forth to-morrow night. The National Guard
(fools and asses who have been yelling out for decisive action) are to
have their wish, and to be placed in the van of battle,--amongst the
foremost, the battalion in which I am enrolled. Should this be our last
meeting on earth, say that Frederic Lemercier has finished his part in
life with eclat."

"Gallant friend," said De Breze, feebly seizing him by the arm, "if it
be true that thy mortal career is menaced, die as thou hast lived. An
honest man leaves no debt unpaid. Thou owest me a dinner."

"Alas! ask of me what is possible. I will give thee three, however, if I
survive and regain my rentes. But today I have not even a mouse to share
with Fox."

"Fox lives then?" cried De Breze, with sparkling hungry eyes.

"Yes. At present he is making the experiment how long an animal can live
without food."

"Have mercy upon him, poor beast! Terminate his pangs by a noble death.
Let him save thy friends and thyself from starving. For myself alone I
do not plead; I am but an amateur in polite literature. But Savarin, the
illustrious Savarin,--in criticism the French Longinus--in poetry
the Parisian Horace--in social life the genius of gaiety in
pantaloons,--contemplate his attenuated frame! Shall he perish for want
of food while thou hast such superfluity in thy larder? I appeal to thy
heart, thy conscience, thy patriotism. What, in the eyes of France, are
a thousand Foxes compared to a single Savarin?"

"At this moment," sighed Savarin, "I could swallow anything, however
nauseous, even thy flattery, De Breze. But, my friend Frederic, thou
goest into battle--what will become of Fox if thou fall? Will he not be
devoured by strangers? Surely it were a sweeter thought to his faithful
heart to furnish a repast to thy friends?--his virtues acknowledged, his
memory blest!"

"Thou dost look very lean, my poor Savarin! And how hospitable tho