With the pretty Janette he appeared to be an old-established friend; and a great deal of flirting, and that kind of conversation which consists of pretty trifles, ensued each time she appeared on the ringing of the bell. But the ci-devant grenadier of Napoleon was doubtless on the same easy footing with all the waiteresses and shop-girls in every warehouse, cabaret, and café in and about Paris. As the night was rather chilly, I proposed that we should have some mulled port, spiced with cloves and sugar, in a mode I had often had it prepared at Madrid by an old patrona on whom I was billeted. St. Florian's countenance changed at the mention of the mulled wine, and with ill-concealed disgust and precipitation he protested against it, swearing by the head of the Pope, that although he never drank water when anything better could be had, he would rather drink it out of a ditch, after a brigade of horse had passed through it, than taste mulled wine of any kind. "And why so?" I asked, astonished by his vehemence. "Sacre nom--'tis another long story; but Chataigneur, of the 23rd, and I, were as nearly brought to the threshold of death as may be by some muddy liquor called mulled port, and I never could look upon it, or think of it, with any degree of patience. You will find the story in all the French and Spanish newspapers. Ouf! it made a devil of a noise in the army." "I should be glad to hear it," said I, touching the bell-rope; "but in the meantime----" "We will have some more champagne. Yes, the champagne of the Oriflamme is delicious. I have drunk a tun here, I believe--aye, in this very room, with Jacques Chataigneur. There are some caricatures of Monsieur Vellainton which he chalked on the wall. Poor Jacques! a shot from that cursed Chateau of Hougomont passed through his heart, when, sword in hand, he was leading on the grenadiers of the great Emperor to conquest or to death. He fell within a yard of me, prone over his horse's crupper, and his last words were--'To the charge, to the charge! Vive l'Empereur!' If true courage and bravery are rewarded in heaven--but, ma foi! I am growing quite pathetic. Where is the wine? Janette," he cried, down the passage, "Janette, my princess!" "Ah oui, monsieur--me voila!" replied the girl, running in. "My dear girl, let us have some champagne, a few more cigars, and a nice little tray of grapes, or bon-bons; but let the wine be bright as your own eyes, my wanton." The girl was tripping away. "But halt, Janette," he added, catching her by the skirt; "how long is it since a rough moustache has been pressed to that pretty cheek of yours?" "Monsieur St. Florian, you are pleased to be very rude." "Come, coquette, do not affect to mistake pure admiration for rudeness. Now you owe one salute, my pretty Janette, for remember how you fled from me last night on the Quai de la Conference." "Well, then, one only," said she, tendering her cheek, which was slightly rouged.