‘Diable! He knows me, does he say—he knows me? Who is he—what is he?’ said a voice I well remembered; and at the same instant the brown, dark visage of General Masséna peered over the balcony.
‘He’s a countryman of yours, Masséna,’ said Vandamme, laughing. ‘Eh, are you not a Piémontais?’
Up to this moment I had stood silently listening to the dialogue around me, without the slightest apparent sign of noticing it. Now, however, as I was directly addressed, I drew myself up to a soldierlike attitude, and replied—
‘No, sir. I am more a Frenchman than General Vandamme, at least.’
‘Send that fellow here; send him up, Lestocque, and have a corporal’s party ready for duty,’ cried the general, as he threw the end of his cigar into the street, and walked hastily away.
It was not the first time in my life that my tongue had brought peril on my head; but I ascended the stairs with a firm step, and if not with a light, at least with a resolute, heart, seeing how wonderfully little I had to lose, and that few men had a smaller stake in existence than myself.
The voices were loud, and in tones of anger, as I stepped out upon the terrace.
‘So we are acquaintances, it would appear, my friend?’ said Masséna, as he stared fixedly at me.
‘If General Masséna cannot recall the occasion of our meeting,’ said I proudly, ‘I ‘ll scarcely remind him of it.’
‘Come, come,’ said Vandamme angrily, ‘I must deal with this gaillard myself. Are you a French soldier?’