“Parbleu! you are modest, sir. So had every drummer-boy that beat his tattoo! But yours was the part of a great leader, if I err not?” I made no answer, but stood firm and unmoved. “How do you call the island which you have immortalized by your valor?” “The Fels Insel, sir.” “Gentlemen, let us drink to the hero of the Fels Insel,” said he, holding up his glass for the servant to fill it. “A bumper—a full, a flowing bumper! And let him also pledge a toast, in which his interest must be so brief. Give him a glass, Contard.” “His hands are tied, mon general.” “Then free them at once.” The order was obeyed in a second; and I, summoning up all my courage to seem as easy and indifferent as they were, lifted the glass to my lips, and drained it off. “Another glass, now, to the health of this fair lady, through whose intercession we owe the pleasure of your company,” said the general. “Willingly,” said I; “and may one so beautiful seldom find herself in a society so unworthy of her!” A perfect roar of laughter succeeded the insolence of this speech; amid which I was half pushed, half dragged, up to the end of the table, where the general sat. “How so, Coquin, do you dare to insult a French general, at the head of his own staff!” “If I did, sir, it were quite as brave as to mock a poor criminal on the way to his execution!” “That is the boy! I know him now! the very same lad!” cried the lady, as, stooping behind Berthier’s chair, she stretched out her hand toward me. “Come here; are you not Colonel Mahon’s godson?” I looked her full in the face; and whether her own thoughts gave the impulse, or that something in my stare suggested it, she blushed till her cheek grew crimson. “Poor Charles was so fond of him!” whispered she in Berthier’s ear; and, as she spoke, the expression of her face at once recalled where I had seen her, and I now perceived that she was the same person I had seen at table with Colonel Mahon, and whom I believed to be his wife. A low whispering conversation now ensued between the general and her, at the close of which, he turned to me and said, “Madame Merlancourt has deigned to take an interest in you—you are pardoned. Remember, sir, to whom you owe your life, and be grateful to her for it.” I took the hand she extended toward me, and pressed it to my lips. “Madame,” said I, “there is but one favor more I would ask in this world, and with it I could think myself happy.” “But can I grant it, mon cher,” said she, smiling. “If I am to judge from the influence I have seen you wield, madame, here and elsewhere, this petition will easily be accorded.” A slight flush colored the lady’s cheek, while that of the general became dyed red with anger. I saw that I had committed some terrible blunder, but how, or in what, I knew not.