“Because it is a cartridge-box belonging to a regiment of the guards, Monsieur, and bears the Imperial eagle.”
“And do you belong to the guard?”
“Pardon, Monsieur, I belong to the sixth regiment of the line.”
“And this—bought where?” asks the officer, pointing to a cigar-holder of yellow wood, in which the Frenchman was smoking his cigarette.
“At Balaklava, Monsieur. It is very plain, of palm-wood.”
“Pretty!” says the officer, guided in his conversation not so much by his own wishes as by the words which he knows.
“If you will have the kindness to keep it as a souvenir of this meeting, you will confer an obligation on me.”
And the polite Frenchman blows out the cigarette, and hands the holder over to the officer with a little bow. The officer gives him his, and all the members of the group, Frenchmen as well as Russians, appear very much pleased and smile.
Then a bold infantryman, in a pink shirt, with his cloak thrown over his shoulders, accompanied by two other soldiers, who, with their hands behind their backs, were standing behind him, with merry, curious countenances, stepped up to a Frenchman, and requested a light for his pipe. The Frenchman brightened his fire, stirred up his short pipe, and shook out a light for the Russian.