"What! Mon Dieu!" cried the old soldier, grasping him energetically by both hands, "are you that officer?"
"I am the same, monsieur."
"How happy I am to have you here in Paris,—in my own house, that I may repay you—at least, as far as hospitality can—for the bestowal of that half biscuit, wet and mouldy as it was from being carried—"
"A forty miles' march in a wet havresack. I was about to take command of an out-lying picquet, and the biscuit was my first ration for three consecutive days."
"Ay, my friends," said De Mesmai with unusual gravity, while he filled up the glasses, "those were stirring times, when one might see true soldiering."
"I well remember the morning," continued the baron; "and very disconsolate fellows your picquet seemed, as they marched by the light of the grey dawn along the muddy Plaza, with their muskets slung, and their feathers and great coats soaked in water, for the rain was pouring down like a second deluge. On my honour, monsieur! I have often thought of the generous Scottish officer and the wet biscuit. I had been famishing for eight and forty hours. Ah! 'twas an interesting adventure that."
"Not so interesting by one half," said De Mesmai slowly, while a wicked smile lurked on his moustached mouth; "not so singular by one half as my friend's adventure with the baroness on the Pyrenees, after King Joseph's misfortunes at Vittoria. There is something very unique, quite romantic, in that story."
"Monsieur, was it you who—"
Stuart began to murmur something about having "had the pleasure to be of some service to the baroness—"
"I have heard of it," said the baron. "Oh, monsieur, you quite overpower me with your services. How shall we ever repay you!"