“If you will have the kindness to keep it as a souvenir of this meeting, you will confer an obligation on me.” And the polite Frenchman blows out the cigarette, and hands the holder over to the officer with a little bow. The officer gives him his, and all the members of the group, Frenchmen as well as Russians, appear very much pleased and smile. Then a bold infantryman, in a pink shirt, with his cloak thrown over his shoulders, accompanied by two other soldiers, who, with their hands behind their backs, were standing behind him, with merry, curious countenances, stepped up to a Frenchman, and requested a light for his pipe. The Frenchman brightened his fire, stirred up his short pipe, and shook out a light for the Russian. “Tobacco good!” said the soldier in the pink shirt; and the spectators smile. “Yes, good tobacco, Turkish tobacco,” says the Frenchman. “And your tobacco—Russian?—good?” “Russian, good,” says the soldier in the pink shirt: whereupon those present shake with laughter. “The French not good—_bon jour, Monsieur_,” says the soldier in the pink shirt, letting fly his entire charge of knowledge in the language at once, as he laughs and taps the Frenchman on the stomach. The French join in the laugh. “They are not handsome, these beasts of Russians,” says a zouave, amid the crowd of Frenchmen. “What are they laughing about?” says another black-complexioned one, with an Italian accent, approaching our men. “Caftan good,” says the audacious soldier, staring at the zouave's embroidered coat-skirts, and then there is another laugh. “Don't leave your lines; back to your places, _sacré nom_!” shouts a French corporal, and the soldiers disperse with evident reluctance. In the meantime, our young cavalry officer is making the tour of the French officers. The conversation turns on some Count Sazonoff, “with whom I was very well acquainted, Monsieur,” says a French officer, with one epaulet—“he is one of those real Russian counts, of whom we are so fond.” “There is a Sazonoff with whom I am acquainted,” said the cavalry officer, “but he is not a count, so far as I know, at least; a little dark-complexioned man, of about your age.” “Exactly, Monsieur, that is the man. Oh, how I should like to see that dear count! If you see him, pray, present my compliments to him—Captain Latour,” says he, bowing. “Isn't this a terrible business that we are conducting here? It was hot work last night, wasn't it?” says the cavalry officer, wishing to continue the conversation, and pointing to the dead bodies. “Oh, frightful, Monsieur! But what brave fellows your soldiers are—what brave fellows! It is a pleasure to fight with such valiant fellows.” “It must be admitted that your men do not hang back, either,” says the cavalry-man, with a bow, and the conviction that he is very amiable. But enough of this.