“It would amuse you, perhaps,” said Maître François, “were I to tell some of the stories we related to each other at night. We both had had our share of adventure since we met, and some droll ones among the number. However, that is not the question at present. We sat late; so late that they came to close the café at last, and we were obliged to depart. You know the 'Grenadier Rouge,' don't you?” “Yes, I know it well,” replied the major; “it's over the glacis, about a mile outside the barrier.” “Just so; and there's a pleasant walk across the glacis to the gate. As Piccotin and I set out together on our way to the town, the night was calm and mild; a soft moonlight shed a silvery tint over every object, and left the stately poplars to throw a still longer shadow on the smooth grass. For some time we walked along without speaking; the silence of the night, the fragrant air, the mellow light, were all soft and tranquillizing influences, and we sank each into his own reflections. “When we reached the middle of the plain,--you know the spot, I'm sure; there's a little bronze fountain, with four cedars round it,” (the major nodded, and he resumed),--“Piccotin came to a sudden halt, and seizing my hand in both of his, said, 'François, canst thou guess what I 'm thinking of?' “I looked at him, and I looked around me, and after a few seconds' pause I answered, 'Yes, Piccotin, I know it; it is a lovely spot.' “'Never was anything like it!' cried he, in a rapture; 'look at the turf, smooth as velvet, and yet soft to the foot; see the trees, how they fall back to give the light admittance; and there, that little fountain, if one felt thirsty, eh! What say you?' “'Agreed,' said I, grasping him by both hands; 'for this once; once only, Piccotin.' “'Only once, François; a few passes, and no more.' “'Just so; the first touch.' “'Exactly; the first touch,' said he, as, taking off his cloak, and folding it neatly, he laid it on the grass. “It was a strange thing, but in all our lives, from earliest boyhood up, we never had measured swords together; and though we were both maîtres d'armes, we never crossed blades, even in jest. Often and often had our comrades pitted us against each other, and laid wagers on the result, but we never would consent to meet; I cannot say why. It was not fear; I know not how to account for it, but such was the fact. “'What blade do you wear, François?' said he, approaching me, as I arranged my jacket and vest, with my cap, on the ground. “'A Rouen steel,' said I; 'too limber for most men, but I am so accustomed to it, I prefer it.' “'Ah! a pretty weapon indeed,' said he, drawing it from the scabbard, and making one or two passes with it against an elder trunk. 'Was this the blade you had with you in Egypt?' “'Yes; I have worn none other for eight years.' “'Ah, _ma foi!_ those Mamelukes. How I envy you those Mamelukes!' he muttered to himself, as he walked back to his place.