“Audacity, my friend! Always that!” said Chanrellon, with a twist of his superb mustaches. “It is the finest quality out; nothing so sure to win. Hallo! There is le beau corporal listening. Ah! Bel-a-faire-peur, you fell, too, among the Lotos and the Coeurs d'Acier once, I will warrant.” The Chasseur, who was passing, paused and smiled a little, as he saluted. “Coeurs d'Acier are to be found in all ranks of the sex, monsieur, I fancy!” “Bah! you beg the question. Did not a woman send you out here?” “No, monsieur--only chance.” “A fig for your chance! Women are the mischief that casts us adrift to chance.” “Monsieur, we cast ourselves sometimes.” “Dieu de Dieu! I doubt that. We should go straight enough if it were not for them.” The Chasseur smiled again. “M. le Viscomte thinks we are sure to be right, then, if, for the key to every black story, we ask, 'Who was she?'” “Of course I do. Well! who was she? We are all quoting our tempters to-night. Give us your story, mon brave!” “Monsieur, you have it in the folios, as well as my sword could write it.” “Good, good!” muttered the listening General. The soldier-like answer pleased him, and he looked attentively at the giver of it. Chanrellon's brown eyes flashed a bright response. “And your sword writes in a brave man's fashion--writes what France loves to read. But before you wore your sword here? Tell us of that. It was a romance--wasn't it?” “If it were, I have folded down the page, monsieur.” “Open it then! Come--what brought you out among us? Out with it!” “Monsieur, direct obedience is a soldier's duty; but I never heard that inquisitive annoyance was an officer's privilege.” These words were calm, cold, a little languid, and a little haughty. The manner of old habit, the instinct of buried pride spoke in them, and disregarded the barrier between a private of Chasseurs who was but a sous-officier, and a Colonel Commandant who was also a noble of France. Involuntarily, all the men sitting round the little table, outside the cafe, turned and looked at him. The boldness of speech and the quietude of tone drew all their eyes in curiosity upon him. Chanrellon flushed scarlet over his frank brow, and an instant's passion gleamed out of his eyes; the next he threw his three chairs down with a crash, as he shook his mighty frame like an Alpine dog, and bowed with a French grace, with a campaigner's frankness. “A right rebuke!--fairly given, and well deserved. I thank you for the lesson.”