“Rail on, my good friend; you 'll find it very hard to make an old scholar of the Polytechnique think poorly of the man that gains battles.”
“Well, well, I give up my faith in physiognomy. Do you remember that same evening in the Tuileries when I asked your pardon, and begged to be your friend? I thought you a different fellow then from what I see you now; that silly hussar pelisse has turned many a head before yours.”
“You wish to make me angry, De Beauvais, and you 'll not succeed. A night's rest will bring you to better temper with all the world.”
“Will it, faith! In that case a tolerably large portion of it must take leave of it before morning; for I promise you, my worthy hussar, there are some I don't expect to feel so very charitably towards as you expect.”
“Well, well! What say you to bed?”
“I 'll sleep where I am,” said he, with some harshness in his tone. “Good-night.”
The words were scarcely uttered when he turned on his side, and, shading his eyes from the light with his hand, fell fast asleep.
It was already past midnight, and as I was fatigued with my day's walking, I soon retired to my bed, but not to rest. Whenever I closed my eyes, Beauvais's pale and worn face seemed before me,—the haggard expression of suffering and privation. And then I fell to thinking what enterprise of danger could involve him in such necessities as these. It must be one of peril, or he had not become what now I saw him. His very voice was changed,—its clear, manly tone was now harsh and dissonant; his frank and cheerful look was downcast and suspicious.
At last, worn out with thinking, I fell asleep; but was suddenly awakened by a voice shouting from the outer room. I sat up and listened. It was De Beauvais, calling wildly for help; the cry grew fainter, and soon sank into the long-drawn respiration of repose. Poor fellow! even in his dreams his thoughts were of strife and danger.