‘So I remarked,’ continued Dillon; ‘you lived like one whose means did not warrant waste, nor whose principles permitted debt.’
By this time they had reached a small pavilion in the wood, at the door of which a sentry was stationed.
‘Here we are,’ cried Dillon; ‘this is my quarter: come up and see how luxuriously a Chef d’Escadron is lodged.’
Nothing, indeed, could be more simple or less pretentious than the apartment into which Gerald was now ushered. The furniture was of a dark nut-wood, and the articles few and inexpensive.
‘I know you are astonished at this humble home. You have heard many a story of the luxury and splendour of the superior officers of our corps, how they walk on Persian carpets and lounge on ottomans covered with Oriental silks. Well, it’s all true, Gerald; the only exception is this poor quarter before you. I, too, might do like them. I might tell the royal commissary to furnish these rooms as luxuriously as I pleased. The civil list never questions or cavils—it only pays. Perhaps, were I a Frenchman born, I should have little scruple about this; but, like you, Fitzgerald, I am an alien—only a guest, no more.’
The Count, without summoning a servant, produced a bottle and glasses from a small cupboard in the wall, and drawing a table to the window, whence a view extended over the forest, motioned to Gerald to be seated.
‘This is not the first time words have passed between you and Maurepas,’ said Dillon, after they had filled and emptied their glasses.
‘It happens too frequently,’ said Gerald, with warmth. ‘From the day I bought that Limousin horse of his we have never been true friends.’
‘I heard as much. He thought him unrideable, and you mounted him on parade, and that within a week.’
‘But I offered to let him have the animal back when I subdued him. I knew what ailed the horse; he wanted courage—all his supposed vice was only fear.’