pass the sword of Renaud de Montauban, his ancestor, through your body.”
“He will sully it then,” returned Lucien; “for I am low—very low.”
“Oh, heavens,” cried Beauchamp, “the minister quotes Béranger, what shall we come to next?”
“ M. de Château-Renaud— M. Maximilian Morrel,” said the servant, announcing two fresh guests.
“Now, then, to breakfast,” said Beauchamp; “for, if I remember, you told me you only expected two persons, Albert.”
“Morrel,” muttered Albert—“Morrel—who is he?”
But before he had finished, M. de Château-Renaud, a handsome young man of thirty, gentleman all over—that is, with the figure of a Guiche and the wit of a Mortemart—took Albert’s hand.
“My dear Albert,” said he, “let me introduce to you M. Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis, my friend; and what is more—however the man speaks for himself—my preserver. Salute my hero, viscount.”
And he stepped on one side to give place to a young man of refined and dignified bearing, with large and open brow, piercing eyes, and black moustache, whom our readers have already seen at Marseilles, under circumstances sufficiently dramatic not to be forgotten. A rich uniform, half French, half Oriental, set off his graceful and stalwart figure, and his broad chest was decorated with the order of the Legion of Honor. The young officer bowed with easy and elegant politeness.
“Monsieur,” said Albert with affectionate courtesy, “the count of Château-Renaud knew how much pleasure this introduction would give me; you are his friend, be ours also.”