“Since when, sir, have I called you into my counsels and asked your advice? or what is it in your position which entitles you to question one in mine? Duroc, come here. Your sword, sir!”
The young man let fall his shako from his hand, and laid it on his sword-hilt.
“Ah!” cried the Emperor, suddenly; “what became of your right arm?”
“I left it at Aboukir, Sire.”
Napoleon muttered something between his teeth; then added, aloud,—
“Come, sir, you are not the first whose hand has saved his head. Return to your duty, and, mark me! be satisfied with doing yours, and leave me to mine. And you, sir,” said he, turning towards me, and using the same harsh tone of voice, “I should know your face.”
“Lieutenant Burke, of the Eighth Hussars.”
“Ah! I remember,—the Chouanist. So, sir, it seems that I stand somewhat higher in your esteem than when you kept company with Messieurs Georges and Pichegru, eh?”
“No, Sire; your Majesty ever occupied the first place in my admiration and devotion.”
“Sacristi! then you took a strange way to show it when first I had the pleasure of your acquaintance. You are on General St. Hilaire's staff?”