"Ah, yes," another aged veteran chimed in; "ah, yes; he was a great man."
Old Nonesuch clapped his hand to his ear.
"Pardon me, comrade the Corsican," he said, with the air of one who had not heard aright; "excuse my question, but would you kindly tell me whom you call a great man?"
"Whom, old deaf ears? Why, the Emperor Napoleon, of course," replied the Corsican.
Old Nonesuch burst out laughing, and pounded the pavement with his heavy cane.
"To call the emperor a man!" he exclaimed; "and what, then, will you call me?"
"You? why, what should we?" said the Corsican veteran; "old Father Nonesuch, old 'Not Entire,' otherwise, Corporal Francis Haut of Brienne."
"Ah, bah!" cried the persistent veteran; "I do not mean my name, stupid! I mean my quality, my—my title, my—well—my sex,—indeed, what am I?" "Well, what is left of you, I suppose," laughed the Corsican, "we might call a man."
"A man! there you have it exactly!" cried old Nonesuch. "I am a man; and so are you, Corsican, and you, Stephen, and you,—almost so,—youngster. But my emperor—the Emperor Napoleon! was he a man? Away with you! It was the English who invented that story; they did not know what he was capable of, those English! The emperor a man? Bah!"
"What was he, then? A woman?" queried the Corsican.