(As he says this he emerges in a vast and murky way into the vision of Boutroux. The two men stop their horses and look at each other through the mist.)
Boutroux. Have you seen the Thirty-second?
Metris. (Boutroux perceives him to be a tall man quite ten years his senior, very lean, with menacing moustaches, and clothed in a uniform with which he is unfamiliar.) No, sir, I have not seen the Thirty-second. (He salutes with a sword.) I take it you are an officer in the Republican service?
Boutroux (wearily). Oh yes!
Metris (with elaborate courtesy). Then, sir, you are my prisoner! My name is Georges de Metris, of Heyren in this country, and my father's name will be familiar to you.
Boutroux. Your father's name is not familiar to me, sir. And what is more, my father's name would not be familiar to you. For my poor old dad (God bless him!) is at the present moment in Bayonne, where he is a grocer—in a large way of business, I am glad to say. And talking of prisoners, you are my prisoner! It is as well I should tell you this before we go further. For if there is one thing I detest more than another in this new profession of mine it is the ambiguity thereof. (He salutes with his sword in rather an extravagant fashion and smiles broadly.)
Metris (making his horse trot up quite close to Boutroux and halting stiffly while he lowers his sword). Sir! I should be loath to quarrel with one so young and evidently so new to arms.
Boutroux. And I, sir (lowering his sword as far as ever he can stretch), would be still more loath to quarrel with one so greatly my senior and one evidently too used to this lethal game.
Metris (biting his lips). I detest your principles, sir, but I respect your uniform.
Boutroux. You have the advantage of me, sir. Your uniform seems to me positively grotesque. But your principles I admire enormously.