"Ah!" he said, "looking at our misfortunes; I left my leg on Waterloo." "And I," chimed in his companion, "left my arm at Trafalgar." "_Sacré!_" said the veteran of the land. "One of the cursed English bullets took me in the knee, and spoiled as tight a lancer as they had in the gallant 10th." "And I," rejoined the other, "was at the fourth main-deck gun of the Pluton when I was struck with the splinter while we were engaging the Mars. But we had our revenge. The Pluton shot the Mars' captain's head off!"--a fact which I afterwards verified. Captain Duff, the officer alluded to, was thus killed upon his quarter-deck, and the same ball shattered two seamen almost to pieces. "_Sacré!_" said the _ci-devant_ lancer, "I'd like to have a rap at the English again--I would--the English--_nom de tonnerre_--tell me--didn't they murder the emperor?" A rising smile, which I could not help, stopped him. I had spoken so few words, that the fact that a son of _perfide Albion_ was before them was only manifested by the expression of my face. "_Tiens!_" continued the Waterloo man, "_You_ are an Englishman." The old sailor, who was evidently by no means so keen a hand as his comrade, nudged him; a hint, I suppose, in common phrase, to draw it mild; but the ex-lancer of the 10th was not to be put down. "Well, and if you are, what then, eh? I say I would like to have another brush with you." "No, no! We have had enough of brushes!" said the far more pacific man of the sea. "I think--_mon voisin_--that you and I have had quite enough of fighting." "But they killed the emperor. _Sacré nom de tous les diables_--they killed the emperor." My modest exculpation on behalf of Great Britain and Ireland was listened to with great impatience by the maimed lancer, and great attention by the maimed sailor, who kept up a running commentary: "_Eh! eh! entendez cela._ Now, that's quite different (to his friend) from what you tell us. Come--that's another story altogether; and what I say is, that's reasonable." But the lancer was not to be convinced--"_Sacré bleu!_--they killed the emperor." All this, it is to be observed, passed without the slightest feeling of personal animosity. The lancer, who, I suspect, had passed the forenoon in the cabaret, every now and then shook hands with me magnanimously, as to show that his wrath was national--not individual; and when I proposed a bottle of rather better wine than they had been drinking, neither soldier nor sailor had a word to say in objection. The wine was brought, and very good it was, though not, of course, first-class claret. "What do you think of that?" said the sailor. "I wish I had as good every day in England," I replied. "And why haven't you?" said the fierce lancer. "You might, if you chose. But you drink none of our wines."