A more perfect representative of this mingled jealousy and hate could not be found than Paul Dupont, the sous-officier in command of this little party. He was a Breton, and carried the ruling trait of his province into the most minute feature of his conduct. Bold, blunt, courageous, open-hearted, and fearless, but passionate to the verge of madness when thwarted, and unforgiving in his vengeance when insulted, he only believed in Brittany, and for the rest of France he cared as little as for Switzerland. His whole life had been spent at sea, until about two years previous, when from boatswain he was promoted to be a sergeant of the Marines of the Guard,—a step he regretted every day, and was now actually petitioning to be restored to his old grade, even at the sacrifice of pay and rank; such was the impression a short life ashore had made on him, and so complete his contempt for any service save that in blue water.
“Come, old 'sea-wolf,'”—such was the sobriquet Paul went by among his comrades,—“thou art dull to-night,” said an old sailor with a head as white as snow. “I haven't seen thee so low of heart this many a day.”
“What wonder, Comrade, if I am so?” retorted Paul, gruffly. “This shore service is bad enough, not to make it worse by listening to such yarns as these we have been hearing, about platoons and squadrons; of charges here and counter-marches there. Ventre d'enfer! that may amuse those who never saw a broadside or a boarding; but as for me, look ye, Comrade!”—here he addressed himself to me, laying his great hand upon my shoulder as he spoke,—“until ye can bring your mounted lines to charge up to the mouth of a battery vomiting grape and roundshot, ye must not tell your stories before old sailors, ay, though they be only Marines' of the Guard, some of them.”
“Don't be angry with old Paul, Comrade,” said the man who spoke before; “he does not mean to offend you.”
“Who told you that?” said Paul, sternly. “Why can't you sheer off, and leave me to' lay alongside of my enemy my own way?”
“You must not call me by such a name,” said I; “we all serve the Emperor, and have no enemies save his. Come, Paul, let us have a cup of wine together.”
“Agreed! an ye promise to tell no more tales of dragoons and hussars, and such like cattle, I'll drink with you. Bah! it's not Christianlike to fight a-horse-back,—it's only fit for Turks and Arabs; but for men that are made to stand fast on their own stout timbers, they have no need of four-footed beasts to carry them against an enemy. Here's my hand, Comrade; is it a bargain?”
“Willingly,” said I, laughing. “If you consent, instead, to tell us some of your own adventures, I promise faithfully not to trouble you with one of mine.”
“That's like a man,” said Paul, evidently flattered by the successful assertion of his own superiority. “And now, if the host will let us have some more wine, I'm ready.”
“Ay, ay,” cried several together; “replenish the basket once more.”