There was a sudden confusion on the edge of the line. The grenadiers forming a circle around the fire had caught a man wearing a Russian greatcoat and were dragging him into the light.
"What's this? Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Napoleon, recognizing the green uniform which he had seen on many a battlefield. "A Russian! Here!"
"A soldier of France, Sire," came the astonishing answer in excellent French from the supposed prisoner.
At this amazing remark in their own tongue the bewildered grenadiers on guard released him. He tore off the green cap and dashed it to the ground.
"Give me a shako. Let me feel the bearskin of the guard again," he cried impetuously, as his hands ripped open his overcoat, disclosing his uniform. "I am a grenadier of the line, Sire."
Napoleon peered down at him.
"Ah," he said, "I know you. You are called——"
"Bal-Arrêt, your Majesty."
"Exactly. Have you stopped any more this time?"
"There is one in my left arm. Your guards hurt when they grasped it. But it is nothing. I didn't come here to speak of bullets, but of——"