‘There’s some truth in that,’ observed an old major.
‘Could you promise to guide them, Giorgio?’ said Masséna.
‘Yes, every step of the way—up to the very walls of the fort.’
‘There, then,’ cried the general, ‘one great difficulty is got over already.*
‘Not so fast, générale mio,’ said the dwarf; ‘I said I could, but I never said that I would.’
‘Not for a liberal present, Giorgio; not if I filled that leather pouch of yours with five-franc pieces, man?’
‘I might not live to spend it, and I care little for my next of kin,’ said the dwarf dryly.
‘I don’t think that we need his services, general,’ said I; ‘I saw the place this evening, and however steep it seems from the walls, the descent is practicable enough—at least I am certain that our tirailleurs, in the Black Forest, would never have hesitated about it.’
I little knew that when I uttered this speech I had sent a shot into the very heart of the magazine, the ruling passion of Masséna’s mind being an almost insane jealousy of Moreau’s military fame—his famous campaign of Southern Germany, and his wonderful retreat upon the Rhine, being regarded as achievements of the highest order.
‘I’ve got some of those regiments you speak of in my brigade here, sir,’ said he, addressing himself directly to me, and I must own that their discipline reflects but little credit on the skill of so great an officer as General Moreau; and as to light troops, I fancy Colonel de Vallence yonder would scarcely feel it a flattery were you to tell him to take a lesson from them.’