“Name of a name! Is it possible? How vast this America must be! And they tell me--” Here he struck a wax match and paused to light his pipe. He drew a dozen whiffs in silence, while on his face was the thoughtful look of one whose taste in tobacco was critical and whose love for it was strong. “Thunder of guns, but it is good!” he exclaimed, as he took the pipe from his mouth and passed it lightly back and forth beneath his nose. “Had we smoked tobacco like this in the Crimea we should have whipped those rascal Russians in a single week. Ah, that we often were without tobacco was the hardest part of all. I have smoked coffee grounds and bay, Monsieur, and have been thankful to get them--I myself, who well know what is good and what is not good in a pipe! This tobacco--it is divine!” “Monsieur served in the Crimea?” “This is the proof of it,” he said, a little grimly, touching the scar on his forehead. “And this,” his wife added, touching the bit of red ribbon in his button-hole. “He was the bravest man in all that war, Monsieur, this old husband of mine. His cross was given him by--” “Tchut, little one! What does Monsieur care how I got my cross? It was not much that I did. Any man would have done the same.” “But the others did _not_ do the same. They ran away and left thee to do it alone. Did not his Majesty tell thee--” “Ah, Monsieur hears what a _babillarde_ it is. If she were given her own way she would swear that I commanded the allied armies, and that I blew up the Redan and stormed the Malakoff and captured Sebastopol all alone!” “Tell Monsieur what thou didst do,” said the little woman, warmly. “Tell him truly precisely what thou didst do, and then let him judge for himself if what I have said be one bit less than thy due.” “And so bring Monsieur to know that I am a babbling old woman like thyself?” He pinched her gently, and then settled himself back against the cushion as though with the intention of giving himself wholly to the enjoyment of his pipe: yet was there a look in his eyes that showed how strong was the desire within him--the desire that is natural to every brave and simple-minded old soldier--to tell the story of his honorable scars. Even had I felt no desire to hear this story, not to have pressed him to tell it would have been cruel. But little pressing was required. “Since Monsieur is good enough to desire to hear what little there is to tell,” he said, “and to show him how foolish is this old woman of mine, I will tell him the whole affair. It is a stupid nothing; but Monsieur may be amused by the trick that was put upon me by those great generals--yes, that certainly was droll.