It was a pleasure to see how cleverly and adroitly and gaily Gerald assisted his former comrade in setting the table under the arbour. The task was accomplished so quickly and neatly that one would have supposed that the young duke, like his friend, must have been used to poverty all his life.
To please his friend, Gerald, in half an hour, made a complete conquest of the veteran and his housekeeper, who was delighted beyond expression to see her anti-Bonapartist ally partake with great apparent enjoyment of her onion soup, salad, and vinaigrette, to which Gerald even asked to be helped twice.
It is needless to say that, during this cheerful repast, the veteran, delicately led on by Gerald, was induced to talk of his campaigns; then, this tribute of respect paid to their companion's superior years, the two young men related all sorts of episodes of their college and army life.
The veteran had lighted his pipe, and Gerald and Olivier their cigars, when the latter happened to inquire of his friend:
"By the way, what has become of that scoundrel, Macreuse, who used to play the spy on us at college? You remember him?—a big, light-haired fellow, who used to cuff us soundly as he passed, just because he dared to, being twice as big as we were."
At the name of Macreuse, Gerald's face took on an expression of mingled contempt and aversion, and he replied:
"You speak rather slightingly,—M. Célestin de Macreuse, it seems to me."
"De Macreuse!" cried Olivier. "He must have treated himself to the de since we knew him, then. In those days his origin was shrouded in mystery. Nobody knew anything about his parents. He was so poor that he once ate half a dozen wood-lice to earn a sou."
"And then he was so horribly cruel," added Gerald; "do you remember his putting those little birds' eyes out with a pin to see if they would fly afterwards?"
"The scoundrel!" exclaimed the indignant commander. "Such a man as that ought to be flayed alive."