"I should be glad to hear it," said I, touching the bell-rope; "but in the meantime——"
"We will have some more champagne. Yes, the champagne of the Oriflamme is delicious. I have drunk a tun here, I believe—aye, in this very room, with Jacques Chataigneur. There are some caricatures of Monsieur Vellainton which he chalked on the wall. Poor Jacques! a shot from that cursed Chateau of Hougomont passed through his heart, when, sword in hand, he was leading on the grenadiers of the great Emperor to conquest or to death. He fell within a yard of me, prone over his horse's crupper, and his last words were—'To the charge, to the charge! Vive l'Empereur!' If true courage and bravery are rewarded in heaven—but, ma foi! I am growing quite pathetic. Where is the wine? Janette," he cried, down the passage, "Janette, my princess!"
"Ah oui, monsieur—me voila!" replied the girl, running in.
"My dear girl, let us have some champagne, a few more cigars, and a nice little tray of grapes, or bon-bons; but let the wine be bright as your own eyes, my wanton."
The girl was tripping away.
"But halt, Janette," he added, catching her by the skirt; "how long is it since a rough moustache has been pressed to that pretty cheek of yours?"
"Monsieur St. Florian, you are pleased to be very rude."
"Come, coquette, do not affect to mistake pure admiration for rudeness. Now you owe one salute, my pretty Janette, for remember how you fled from me last night on the Quai de la Conference."
"Well, then, one only," said she, tendering her cheek, which was slightly rouged.
St. Florian stole three.