The enthusiastic young Irishman could not but be affected at this reminiscence of an era which appeals to all that is romantic in our nature, told, too, by one who was an actor in it, and who carried in his heart, still vivid and strong, the proud affection for Napoleon with which that genius of war inspired his followers to the humblest. Nor was his sole motive that of gratifying the captain when he demanded the horn-box for another pinch, and, to the exuberant delight of the old man, with it in his hand sung _Les Souvenirs du Peuple_ of Béranger. 'Thanks, thanks, my young friend!' cried the captain, the tears streaming down his cheeks; 'what a happy evening!' 'But, captain, you don't enjoy yourself; you don't drink, you won't smoke. True, you told me there was a reason for it.' 'Yes, and as we are together in free friendship, I'll tell you, my dear child, you who have sung such a beautiful song for the old soldier.' But we must reserve the captain's story for another chapter. CHAPTER VI. THE OLD BONAPARTIST'S STORY. 'When I was young like you,' began the captain, 'I had my illusions. I came of a royalist family which had suffered much by the Revolution, and had stood up for the cause of the king as long as La Vendée was able to keep a square league of ground to itself or a square inch of its flag flying. But we had to give way; we could not conquer impossibilities: Fortune always sides with the big battalions, as the Man used to say. The domain passed from the hands of the Chauvins, and I, the heir of the house, was obliged to take service with those who had helped to uproot the family tree. I had no other alternative; my parents were dead; I, the only scion of the ancient stock left, owed my life to the care of my nurse, a brave peasant woman, who was married to a burly grenadier of the Republic. They were kind in their way to the young aristocrat, and they loved France. Poor Céline, to-day I could drop a tear over your quiet grass-covered grave down in Burgundy: and Tricot, too, he was a thorough soldier. He died on the retreat from Moscow the same day that Schramm--you know Schramm, who is president of an army commission here now--was made brigadier-general. 'Did you ever hear the story of his promotion? 'He was a colonel when we made that fatal invasion, and in one of the bloody fights on our retrograde march, fell, pierced by a bullet. The blood bubbled in hot gouts from his wound, but the tears came faster from his eyes. The Man saw him. '"What, weeping!" he said. "Why do you cry?" '"Because I'm going to die only a colonel," said Schramm. '"We'll settle that," said Napoleon, and made him a brigadier-general on the spot. Schramm has not died since.