“His head!” exclaimed we all of a breath,—“his head!»
“Yes, poor fellow, so it was; a damned hard kind of a bullet-head, too! The blow has left a weakness of the stomach I suppose I shall never recover from; and the occurrence being so singular, I have actually never asked for a pension,—there are people, by Jove! would throw discredit on it.”
This latter observation seemed so perfectly to sum up our own thoughts on the matter that we really had nothing to remark on it; and after a silence of a few seconds, politely relieved by the countess hinting at coffee in the drawing-room, we arose and followed her.
CHAPTER XVII. THE RUE DES CAPUCINES
Before I parted with Bubbleton that evening be promised to breakfast with me on the following morning; and true to his word, entered my quarters soon after ten o'clock. I longed to have an opportunity of talking to him alone, and learning some intelligence of that country, which, young as I had left it, was still hallowed in memory as my own.
“Eh, by Jupiter! this is something like a quarter,—gilded mouldings, frescos, silk hangings, and Persian rugs. I say, Tom, are you sure you haven't made a mistake, my boy, and just imagined that you were somebody else,—Murat or Bernadotte, for example? The thing is far easier than you may think; it happened to me before now.”
“Be tranquil on that score,” said I, “we are both at home; though these quarters are, as you remark, far beyond the mark of a captain of hussars.”
“A captain! Why, hang it, you're not captain already?”
“Yes, to be sure. What signifies it? Only think of your own rapid rise since we parted; you were but a captain then, and to be now a lieutenant-general!”