"But, General, do you not recognise this gentleman?" "Upon my word, I don't," said my father. "He was the commandant--" "Well?" Dermoncourt signed to the officer as much as to say that he had better continue the conversation himself. The officer, understanding his meaning, replied, laughing: "That commandant, General, was myself!" "Really!" "But--did you not see him?" Dermoncourt asked my father. "The deuce, no," he replied; "I was too much beside myself with rage that day, because I could not manage to cross swords with the person who had incited me." "Well! I was the man who incited you, General," said the officer. "I meant to give you the chance of fighting, but when I saw you bearing down on me, I remembered the style in which I had seen you _go to work_, and my courage failed me. I wanted to tell you this yourself, General, and that is the reason why I asked leave to bring my officers their money and goods. I wanted to see at close quarters the man for whom I had conceived such a great admiration that I dared tell him to his face, 'General, I was afraid of you, and I refused the fight I had offered you.'" My father held out his hand. "Upon my word, Commandant, if that is the case, pray say no more about it. I prefer that our acquaintance should begin at this table rather than elsewhere. Your health, Commandant." They drank, and the conversation then turned upon other subjects. But the topic still hovered round my father's fine feat of arms at Clausen; the three officers had heard the story of the bridge; all thought my father had been killed, even as was his horse, and the news had made a profound sensation in the Austrian army. My father then referred to the famous pistols which he so much regretted, and which he had charged Joubert to regain from the hands of the Austrians if it were possible; they still remained in the hands of the enemy, in spite of that commission. The three officers took particular note of my father's expressions of regret, each resolving to search for these precious pistols--the commandant directly he returned to camp, and the two others as soon as they were free. Thanks to my father, the two officers had not long to wait for their liberty: they were exchanged for two French officers of a similar rank. They took leave of the officers' quarters with many expressions of gratitude, and one of them, at any rate, did not lose time in giving proof of this to my father. A week or so after their departure, an officer came under a flag of truce to the French camp, and, asking to speak with my father, handed him the pistols he had mourned for so long. They had been carried to General Kerpen himself, who, upon the request of the officer whom my father had wounded and taken prisoner, returned them to him with a charming letter. The next day but one my father received the following letter from this officer:--