“Ay, parbleu!” cried another, “I won my epaulettes at Cairo, when three officers were reported living, in a whole regiment.”
“To be sure,” said François, looking up from his operation of lemon-squeezing; “here am I, a maître d'armes, after twenty-six years' service; and there's Davoust, who never could stand before me, he's a general of brigade.”
The whole party laughed aloud at the grievances of Maître Francois, whose seriousness on the subject was perfectly real.
“Ah; you may laugh,” said he, half in pique; “but what a mere accident can determine a man's fortune in life! Would Junot there be a major-general to-day if he did not measure six feet without his boots? We were at school together, and, ma foi! he was always at the bottom of the class.”
“And so, Francois, it was your size, then, that stopped your promotion?”
“Of course it was. When a man is but five feet—with high heels, too—he can only be advanced as a maître d'armes. Parbleu! what should I be now if I had only grown a little taller?”
“It is all better as it is,” growled out an old captain, between the puffs of his meerschaum. “If thou wert an inch bigger, there would be' no living in the same brigade with thee.”
“For all that,” rejoined Maître François, “I have put many a pretty fellow his full length on the grass.”
“How many duels, François, did you tell us, the other evening, that you fought in the Twenty-second?”
“Seventy-eight!” said the little man; “not to speak of two affairs which, I am ashamed to confess, were with the broadsword; but they were fellows from Alsace, and they knew no better.”