It was natural that the young conscript should remember the old Guardsman who had befriended him in his hour of need far better than the Guardsman could remember the conscript. Henri was greatly changed, while scarcely anything on this side of the grave could change the hard, weather-beaten features of Rougeard. He was obliged to recall the past to his recollection. “Never,” said he, “did banquet seem so sweet to me as that repast of horse-flesh to which you bade me welcome by your bivouac fire on the Smolensko road. But we gave you up for lost that terrible day before we crossed the Beresina.”
“I was made prisoner,” Rougeard answered. “But I fell into good hands, and was kindly treated. At the Peace of Paris I came home with the rest—though it is home no longer without the Emperor,” he added with a sigh.
“You must have much to tell,” Henri rejoined; and as the valet passed through the hall, he said to him, “Alphonse, this is an old friend of mine who showed me much kindness while I was in Russia. Take the best care you can of him. By-and-by,” he said to Rougeard, “we will finish our conversation.”
He returned to the salon, and related what had passed to Madame de Salgues. That lady, with the characteristic love of a Frenchwoman for a little scene, must needs have the old Guardsman brought in, that he might drink the health of Henri, and receive the acknowledgments of his friends for the kindness he had shown him.
So Henri fetched Rougeard, who listened to a little speech from Madame de Salgues, had his hand shaken by Madame de Talmont and Clémence, and emptied a brimming goblet of champagne poured out for him by Emile.
As he gave back the goblet, he bent forward and whispered a word or two, which made the lad—unused as he was to self-control—utter an involuntary cry of amazement, and drop the glass upon the ground.
Of course every one started and looked at him; and Madame de Salgues asked in alarm, “What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Emile in confusion, stooping to collect the fragments of the broken glass.
“Nothing indeed,” repeated the terrible Stéphanie. “You need not be alarmed, madame; I heard every word he said, and it was only this, ‘The little corporal has come back.’ M. Emile, who is the little corporal?”
Well might she ask the question, for “all faces gathered blackness.” The party of friends, just before so glad and gay, looked as if a shell had suddenly burst amongst them. M. de Sartines was the first to find a voice. “Garde,” he said, turning solemnly to Rougeard, “since you have spoken these words you are bound to explain them. I daresay it is mere rumour,” he added, addressing the ladies.