Our colonel, who is a fine, frank, and brave-hearted old fellow, had no idea that he was so suddenly to find himself in his own trap. He laughed and reflected a little, as he stroked the wiry, grey mustache which, in compliance with the late general order, he had just begun to cultivate after forty years of close shaving; and then he smoothed his thin white hair, for he was an old soldier, and (but for the favouritism of the Horse Guards) would have been a general twenty years ago, being one of the few survivors of that army which gave battle to France on the shores of Aboukir, where, as he was wont to say, "he had carried the colours of Geordie Moncrief's lambs--the old Perthshire Greybreeks." He had also been through the whole Peninsular war, and served in the Fifth Hussars, with Sir Colquhoun Grant's brigade under Wellington in Flanders. "I have seen much in my time, gentlemen," said he, good humouredly, as he tossed off a glass of claret, "but have no adventures of my own to relate--at least none that are at all worth your attention. I can, however, tell you the story of another, whose scrapes were somewhat remarkable, and were in some respects--as far as Spanish robbers were concerned--like those of Ramble and Jack Slingsby. They were told me by a French officer, a gay fellow, but a regular candle-snuffer at twelve paces, whom I met at Paris when the allies were there; by this you will perceive that the affairs I refer to happened many a year ago." The glasses were filled; the cracking of nuts ceased; the heavy crystal decanters were slid noiselessly over the long smooth mess-table, the well-polished surface of which reflected the red coats around it, and all was hushed as our grave and gentle old colonel began the following narrative, to which I beg leave to devote my next three chapters. CHAPTER XX. ST. FLORIDAN; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A NIGHT. The night was dark, and the lamps of the Rue du Temple had nearly all been extinguished by a high wind; there was no moon visible. It was in the month after the capture of Paris, in 1815, that the adventures I am about to relate occurred. The defeat at Waterloo, the rapid advance of the British troops, the capture of Cambray by Sir Charles Colville, of Peronne, by the Brigade of Guards under Major-General Maitland, and, last of all, the seizure and military occupation of the great and glorious city of Paris--the citadel of Napoleon--the heart of France, had exasperated the French, and excited their animosity against us. Every citizen greeted us with darkened brows and lowering eyes.