“What's the matter, general?” General Feraud sat erect, holding the newspaper at arm's length in order to make out the small print better. He was reading very low to himself over again fragments of the intelligence which had caused what may be called his resurrection. “We are informed... till now on sick leave... is to be called to the command of the 5th Cavalry Brigade in...” He dropped the paper stonily, mumbled once more... “Called to the command”... and suddenly gave his forehead a mighty slap. “I had almost forgotten him,” he cried in a conscience-stricken tone. A deep-chested veteran shouted across the café: “Some new villainy of the government, general?” “The villainies of these scoundrels,” thundered General Feraud, “are innumerable. One more, one less!...” He lowered his tone. “But I will set good order to one of them at least.” He looked all round the faces. “There's a pomaded curled staff officer, the darling of some of the marshals who sold their father for a handful of English gold. He will find out presently that I am alive yet,” he declared in a dogmatic tone.... “However, this is a private affair. An old affair of honour. Bah! Our honour does not matter. Here we are driven off with a split ear like a lot of cast troop horses--good only for a knacker's yard. Who cares for our honour now? But it would be like striking a blow for the emperor.... _Messieurs_, I require the assistance of two of you.” Every man moved forward. General Feraud, deeply touched by this demonstration, called with visible emotion upon the one-eyed veteran cuirassier and the officer of the _Chasseurs à cheval_, who had left the tip of his nose in Russia. He excused his choice to the others. “A cavalry affair this--you know.” He was answered with a varied chorus of “_Parfaitement mon Général... C'est juste... Parbleu c'est connu..._” Everybody was satisfied. The three left the café together, followed by cries of “_Bonne chance_.” Outside they linked arms, the general in the middle. The three rusty cocked hats worn _en bataille_, with a sinister forward slant, barred the narrow street nearly right across. The overheated little town of gray stones and red tiles was drowsing away its provincial afternoon under a blue sky. Far off the loud blows of some coopers hooping a cask, reverberated regularly between the houses. The general dragged his left foot a little in the shade of the walls. “That damned winter of 1813 got into my bones for good. Never mind. We must take pistols, that's all. A little lumbago. We must have pistols. He's sure game for my bag. My eyes are as keen as ever. Always were. You should have seen me picking off the dodging Cossacks with a beastly old infantry musket. I have a natural gift for firearms.”