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Updated: June 18, 2025
Suspecting that some rumour of the late affair at Frescati might have influenced my friend Meurice in this unusual demand, I abruptly refused, and was about to turn away, when he, perhaps guessing that I had not believed his statements, handed me an open letter, saying, "You see, sir, this is the letter; and, as I am so pressed for spare room, I must now refuse the writer."
The manner of acquaintance he could make in the court of the Hotel Meurice with one of the men over a cup of coffee or a glass of bock would be as readily discontinued as begun, and for his purpose it would have been much better if the Hohenwalds had been living in state with a visitors' book and a chamberlain.
The Ledru-Rollin group is completely disorganized. No more parties; the Republic. It is well. I presented some Dutch cheese to Mme. Paul Meurice. Sleet is falling. December 12. I arrived in Brussels nineteen years ago to-day. December 13. Since yesterday Paris has been lighted with petroleum. Heavy cannonade to-night. December 14. Thaw. Cannonade. It is fine and hideous. December 15.
This might have gone on indefinitely had not the patient attendant finally dandled his keys and yawned over his watch. It was four o'clock, and they had been talking for a full hour. They exchanged cards, and Fitzgerald, with his usual disregard of convention, invited Breitmann to dine with him that evening at the Meurice. He selected a table by the window, dining at seven-thirty.
Two neighbours, workingmen who love me, asked permission to watch by the body all night. The coroner's physician, on uncovering the dear dead, wept. I sent to Meurice a telegram couched in the following terms: Meurice, 18 Rue Valois Appalling misfortune. Charles died this evening, 13th. Sudden stroke of apoplexy. Tell Victor to come back at once.
I have written during the last week, four acts of the play, and my task is finished until the end of the rehearsals which will be looked after by my friend and collaborator, Paul Meurice. All his care does not prevent the working out of the first part from being a horrible bungle.
One-time hotels and casinos along the sea-front between Boulogne and Wimereux have become hospitals, to which, by day and by night, the smooth-running motor ambulances bring broken soldiers. Other of the larger hotels, like the Folkestone and the Meurice, are now patronised almost exclusively by British officers. The military note dominates everything.
"I shall see you to-morrow then, my friend." "Good Heavens, what a hurry you are in!" he said. "Yes!" I replied, and then, leaning out of the window, I said to my coachman, "Drive to the Comedie Francaise." I looked at Paul Meurice to wish him farewell. He was standing stupefied on the arcade steps.
"The more good fortune yours," said Trevanion, drily; "for I acknowledge I should not give much for your chance at twenty paces opposite his pistol; then who is the other?" "Le Baron d'Haulpenne," said I, "and his name is all that I know of him; his very appearance is unknown to me." "I believe I am acquainted with him," said Trevanion; "but here we are at Meurice.
They did travel all night, and the next day, about nine o'clock, they alighted at the Hotel Meurice. Martial scarcely took time to eat his breakfast. "I must go and see my agent at once," he said, as he hurried off. "I will soon be back." He reappeared in about two hours, pleased and radiant. "My agent was a simpleton," he exclaimed.
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