“Now then,” said His Majesty, “let Us see this brigand-catcher who excels the redoubtable Contra Guerrillas.–As I live, the young man is a Chasseur d’Afrique! Step nearer, sir, and tell Us who you are.”
“Michel Ney, at Your Majesty’s service.”
“The Prince of Moskowa!” exclaimed the Emperor. In his court, he was grateful for even a Napoleonic prince.
“Sergeant, Your Majesty.” It looked as though Ney were hinting to be made something else.
“I see,” said Maximilian. “And so Our Empire of romance is to hold a baton for another of the family of Ney. But to start more modestly, how would a lieutenancy suit, do you think?”
“Your pardon, sire, but I report to His Excellency, Marshal Bazaine.”
Maximilian’s white brow clouded. The French occupation was ever a thorn in his side. He could never quite be Emperor in fact. He could not even promote a likely young man. He had to “recommend” to one Bazaine, who had carried a knapsack.
“Quite so,” he answered coldly. “I shall inform Our dear Marshal how well you deserve.”
“The fact is, Your Majesty,” said Ney in some confusion, “I did not–exactly–capture him. It was, uh, sort of mutual.”
Everybody stared curiously. There was the rope, the unloaded pistols. It was a queer puzzle. How did it happen? Ney began with an apology. Would Mademoiselle d’Aumerle 159forgive him? But he had worried though! He should not have left her, day before yesterday!