That pinking him saved me." "I make no doubt of it," said the Abbe.

"Had your Excellency not run him through, he, without a doubt, would have done the same for you." "Psha! you mistake my words, Monsieur l'Abbe" (yawning).

"I mean--what cursed chocolate!--that I was dying for want of excitement.

Not that I cared for dying; no, d---- me if I do!" "WHEN you do, your Excellency means," said the Abbe, a fat grey-haired Irishman, from the Irlandois College at Paris.
His Excellency did not laugh, nor understand jokes of any kind; he was of an undeviating stupidity, and only replied, "Sir, I mean what I say.
I don't care for living: no, nor for dying either; but I can speak as well as another, and I'll thank you not to be correcting my phrases as if I were one of your cursed schoolboys, and not a gentleman of fortune and blood." Herewith the Count, who had uttered four sentences about himself (he never spoke of anything else), sunk back on his pillows again, quite exhausted by his eloquence.

The Abbe, who had a seat and a table by the bedside, resumed the labours which had brought him into the room in the morning, and busied himself with papers, which occasionally he handed over to his superior for approval.
Presently Monsieur la Rose appeared.
"Here is a person with clothes from Mr.Beinkleider's.