“But in Bernadotte France and Sweden clasped hands,” replied Madame de Saint-Esteve, whose historical erudition went as far as that.

“It is very certain,” said Vautrin, “that our beloved sovereign, Charles XIV.—­”

The announcement of dinner by a majordomo, who threw open the double doors of the salon, put an end to this remark.  Jacqueline took Vautrin’s arm, saying in a whisper as they walked along,—­

“Have I done things all right?”

“Yes,” replied Vautrin, “it is all in good style, except that devil of a turban of yours, which makes you look like a poll-parrot.”

“Why, no,” said Jacqueline, “not at all; with my Javanese face” (she was born on the island of Java), “oriental things set me off.”

Madame de Saint-Esteve placed Sir Francis Drake upon her right, and Desroches on her left; Vautrin sat opposite, flanked on either side by Emile Blondet, of the “Debats,” and the Signoria Luigia; the rest of the company placed themselves as they pleased.  The dinner, on the whole, was dull; Bixiou, at Madame de Saint-Esteve’s request, had warned the party to risk nothing that might offend the chaste ears of the pious Italian.  Forced to mind their morals, as a celebrated critic once observed, these men of wit and audacity lost their spirit; and, taking refuge in the menu, which was excellent, they either talked together in a low voice, or let the conversation drag itself along in bourgeois commonplaces.  They ate and they drank, but they did not dine.  Bixiou, incapable of bearing this state of things during a whole dinner, determined to create a reaction.  The appearance of this Swedish magnate, evidently on intimate terms with the Saint-Esteve, puzzled him.  He noticed a certain insufficiency in Vautrin, and thought to himself that if he were really a great nobleman, he would be more equal to the occasion, and give a tone to the feast.  He determined, therefore, to test him, and thus provide amusement, at any rate, for himself.  So, at the end of the second course, he suddenly said from his end of the table,—­

“Monsieur le comte, you are too young, of course, to have known Gustavus III., whom Scribe and Auber have set in opera, while the rest of us glorify him in a galop.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied Vautrin, jumping at the chance thus given him, “I am nearly sixty years of age, which makes me thirteen in 1792, when our beloved sovereign was killed by the assassin Ankarstroem, so that I can well remember that period.”

Thus, by means of a little volume entitled “Characters and Anecdotes of the Court of Sweden,” printed in 1808, and bought on the quays in the interests of his Swedish incarnation, the chief of the detective police evaded the trap.  He did better.  The faucet being open, he poured forth such an abundance of erudition and detailed circumstances, he related so many curious and secret anecdotes, especially relating to the coup d’etat by which, in 1772, Gustavus III. had freed his crown,—­in short, he was so precise and so interesting that as they left the table Emile Blondet said to Bixiou,—­