"Heaven be praised, I am not the son of a nobleman. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. The van started with a jerk and rumbled on its way. ‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. Half an hour's labour, during which he was obliged more than once to pause to regain breath, sufficed to make a hole wide enough to allow a passage for his arm up to the elbow. This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be.
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