It bore his address, Hotel Mirabeau, Rue de Richelieu.
It was eleven o'clock, Sir John's breakfast hour, and Roland had every chance of finding him at that hour.

He got back into his carriage, and ordered the coachman to stop at the Hotel Mirabeau.
He found Sir John sitting before an English breakfast, a thing rarely seen in those days, drinking large cups of tea and eating bloody chops.
As soon as the Englishman saw Roland he gave a cry of joy and ran to meet him.

Roland himself had acquired a deep affection for that exceptional nature, where the noblest qualities of the heart seemed striving to hide themselves beneath national eccentricities.
Sir John was pale and thin, but in other respects he was well.

His wound had completely healed, and except for a slight oppression, which was diminishing daily and would soon disappear altogether, he had almost recovered his former health.

He now welcomed Roland with a tenderness scarcely to be expected from that reserved nature, declaring that the joy he felt in seeing him again was all he wanted for his complete recovery.
He begged Roland to share the meal, telling him to order his own breakfast, a la Francaise.