“Don’t say so, O’Brien,” interrupted I.
“Peter, you know nothing about it; you are grandson to a lord.”
“I know that, but still I am not noble myself, although descended from him; therefore pray don’t say so.”
“Bother, Pater! I have said it, and I won’t unsay it; besides, Pater, recollect it’s a French question, and in France you would be considered noble. At all events it can do no harm.”
“I feel too ill to talk, O’Brien; but I wish you had not said so.”
They then inquired O’Brien’s name, which he told them; his rank in the service, and also whether he was noble.
“I am an O’Brien,” replied he; “and pray what’s the meaning of the O before my name, if I’m not noble? However, Mr Interpreter, you may add, that we have dropped our title because it’s not convanient.” The French officer burst out into a loud laugh, which surprised us very much. The interpreter had great difficulty in explaining what O’Brien said; but as O’Brien told me afterwards, the answer was put down doubtful.
They all left the room except the officer, who then, to our astonishment, addressed us in good English: “Gentlemen, I have obtained permission from the governor for you to remain in my house, until Mr Simple is recovered. Mr O’Brien, it is necessary that I should receive your parole of honour, that you will not attempt to escape. Are you willing to give it?”
O’Brien was quite amazed; “Murder an’ Irish,” cried he; “so you speak English, colonel.”
“I’m of Irish descent,” replied the officer, “and my name, as well as yours, is O’Brien. I was brought up in this country, not being permitted to serve my own, and retain the religion of my forefathers. But to the question, Mr O’Brien, will you give your parole?”