returned Beauchamp, laughing, “for here is Château-Renaud, who, to cure you of your mania for paradoxes, will 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