“Surely, surely, sergeant, this lady would ask a favor.” “Oh, Sir! I’m terribly frightened. I was endeavoring--I am still terribly frightened--but your men stopped me. I was endeavoring to reach my castle--my castle of Berkenfelt.” “Berkenfelt.” “Berkenfelt. Do you know my castle of Berkenfelt?” “Now, what connexion can there be between Captain Bazancourt and that name.” The grizzly sergeant said this amusingly, but it had a strange effect on the aristocrat. “Captain Bazancourt, did you say Captain Bazancourt?” “Yes, you know him perhaps!” “Know him--yes--my sister--I think--was secretly married to him--and their daughter.” “Marie? She is the pearl of the regiment.” “Does she live?” “She does if _I_ do. Steady, lady, steady.” For the lady had to lean against the bank on which Marie had been sitting. “I’faith, Marie’s fortune is made.” “But the proof, the proof.” “The proof--this letter, then!” And from his stout breast the sergeant pulled forth a tough old pocket book, and from the book he took a letter. This letter had been written just before the battle in which the captain fell. He had confided it and the child to a servant, who was unluckily knocked over by a stray shot. The child was found sitting by the dead servant, and there being no clue beyond the letter, which simply named the castle of Berkenfelt, the child was then and there adopted by the regiment, and taught to carry brandy keg, be good-humored and brisk, and beat a drum, as, indeed, has already been explained. The lady took the letter I discovered with some emotion, but in the midst of it, she contrived to say, “I hope she has been well brought up.” “Brought up, marquise, in the most genteel and polite manner! “I’m sure her aunt--I am, of course, her aunt--I’m sure I’m very glad to hear it.” “Par-r-r-r-bleu! Par-r-r-r-bleu! Here you are, Sulpice, and there you are wanted.--Par-r-r-bleu!” “Great impossibles--can that be her,” asked the marquise of herself. And the steward opened his eyes at this terrible talking young woman. “‘Tis she,” said the sergeant to the lady. “Co-r-r-r-bleau!” again commended Marie, marching up to the sergeant. “Cor-r-r-r-bleu, do you call this duty, Sergeant Sulpice?” “Why, she’s positively pulling his moustache,” said the marquise, so far forgetting her dignity as to speak familiarly with her own house-steward. “What an education.” The steward was dolefully and properly shocked. “Come--come--old grumbler, come along, or I’ll pull you by your grizzly upper-lip.” “Order--order.” “Come--come along, then; the whole family is waiting for you.” “Marie--we’ve lost one of the family.” “When--how--where--what--whom?” “You!” “Parbleu! What do you mean?” “The owner of the old letter is found.” “Co-r-r-r-bleu! Where is he?” “She.” “Well, where is she?” “Here--here--dear girl! I am your--aunt.” “Niece--you my aunt? Cor-r-r-r-par-r-r-bleu. Exchange for another regiment--no!” “Your soldier’s life is over now, Marie.”