Damas. Now will I go to the Deschappelles, and make a report to my young Colonel. Ha! by Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, Virorum,—here comes Monsieur Beauseant!
Enter BEAUSEANT.
Good morrow, Monsieur Beauseant! How fares it with you?
Beau. [aside.] Damas! that is unfortunate;—if the Italian campaign should have filled his pockets, he may seek to baffle me in the moment of my victory. [Aloud]. Your servant, general,—for such, I think, is your new distinction! Just arrived in Lyons?
Damas. Not an hour ago. Well, how go on the Deschappelles? Have they forgiven you in that affair of young Melnotte? You had some hand in that notable device,—eh?
Beau. Why, less than you think for! The fellow imposed upon me. I have set it all right now. What has become of him? He could not have joined the army, after all. There is no such name in the books.
Damas. I know nothing about Melnotte. As you say, I never heard the name in the Grand Army.
Beau. Hem!—You are not married, general?
Damas. Do I look like a married man, sir?—No, thank Heaven! My profession is to make widows, not wives.
Beau. You must have gained much booty in Italy! Pauline will be your heiress—eh?