In truth, there was enough of change in his appearance since last I saw him to warrant my forgetfulness. A dark, bushy beard, worn cuirassier fashion, around the mouth and high on the cheeks, almost concealed his face, while in figure he had grown both taller and stouter.
“Art colonel of the Eighth Regiment?” said he, laughing; “you know I promised you were to be, when we were to meet again.”
“No; but, if I mistake not,” said a hussar officer opposite, “monsieur is in the way to become so. Were you not named to a troop, about half an hour ago, by the Emperor himself?”
“Yes!” said I, with an effort to suppress my pride.
“Diantre bleu!” exclaimed Tascher, “what good fortune you always have I I wish you joy of it, with all my heart. I say, Comrades, let us drown his commission for him.”
“Agreed! agreed!” cried they all in a breath. “Francois will make us a bowl of punch for the occasion.”
“Most willingly,” said the little maître d'armes. “Monsieur le Capitaine, I am sure, bears me no ill-will for our little affair. I thought not,” added he, seizing my hand in both his. “Ma foi! you spoiled my tierce for me; I shall never be the same man again. Now, gentlemen, pass down the brandy, and let the man with most credit go seek for sugar at the canteen.”
While François commenced his operations, Tascher proceeded to recount to me the miserable life he had spent in garrison towns, till the outbreak of the campaign had called him on active service.
“It was no use that I asked the Empress to intercede for me, and get me appointed to another regiment; being the nephew of Napoleon seemed to set a complete bar to my advancement. Even now,” said he, “my name has been sent forward by my colonel for promotion, and I wager you fifty Naps I shall be passed over.”
“And what if you be?” said a huge, heavy-browed major beside him; “what great hardship is it to be a lieutenant in the cuirassiers at two and twenty? I was a sergeant ten years later.”