"_Diable!_" said the cuirassier, turning round. "’Tis horrible wine this. Ah! for a single glass of Hermitage, Château Margot, Vin Ordinaire, Volnay, or glorious Champagne, such as old Marcel retails at the Eagle on the Quai d’Orsai, opposite to the Pont Royal, in our good and glorious Paris. But what is the girl weeping about? You should rather laugh, having just found your father, and found him as handsome a fellow as ever stood in jack-boots. All the girls are in love with me,—’pon honour they are. Some of the fairest creatures at the court of the Empress are dying for me; and I mean to act the part of a hard-hearted dragoon, and let them die if they will. I swear to you, Maria, by a thousand caissons of devils, that as you appear just now, with your lashes cast down and your face covered with tears and blushes, like the western sky in a shower, you are pretty enough to turn the brain of monsieur the Pope, to whom I drink that he may have a long and joyful life. But I must retire. My head is buzzing anew with that sword-stroke. _Diable!_ my gay helmet, what a dinge you have got. But, messieurs, we will talk over these matters in the morning, when I suppose we shall leap to saddle without blast of trumpet. Adieu! mademoiselle, my daughter; pleasant dreams to you. _Vive la joie—tête-dieu!_" He took up his heavy military cloak and staggered out of the room, withdrawing to the humble attic set apart for himself and Ronald. A long pause ensued. "There, he has gone with the same swagger as of old,—the polished gentleman,—the accomplished and gallant soldier, combined with the blustering tavern brawler and the libertinism of the perfect _roué_. He is all unchanged, although twenty years have passed into eternity since I beheld him last," said the curate in a mournful accent; "and yet, when I remember what he was, I cannot,—no, I cannot implore a curse upon him. I carried him in my arms when he was an infant, and he is the father of this poor weeping girl. Alas! from the day that as a stripling soldier he first buckled on a sword-belt, time has wrought no change upon him. He is the same daring and gallant, but reckless and hollow-hearted man as ever." "Senor Cura, to me this has been a most incomprehensible scene," said Stuart; "so much so, that I trust you will not consider me impertinent or inquisitive in wishing for an explanation." "Quite the reverse,—an explanation is, indeed, necessary. But retire, Maria, my poor cast-away; I will speak to you of this afterwards. Be seated, monsieur, and draw the wine-jug towards you." He led Maria from the room, and on returning, seated himself at the table and commenced in the following words:—