"Learn to forget her, D'Estouville; you may find it—"
"She is forgotten as my love. Croix Dieu! nay, more; she is forgiven."
"And she is now Baroness Clappourknuis?"
"Oui, monsieur,—such I suppose she would rather be, with the boorish old colonel for her husband, than the wife of Victor D'Estouville, a poor subalterne as I was then."
"Certes, you have got rapid promotion. And you are really now a major?" said Ronald, feeling a little chagrin. "I am still only an ensign, sub-lieutenant, I believe you style it."
"Diable! your promotion is long of coming, especially in these times, when heads are broken like egg-shells. But I would rather have my peace of mind, than promotion to the baton of a marshal of the empire."
"Then you have not forgotten her, although you so often protest you have?'
"I have forgotten to love her, at least. Peste! I am quite cured of that passion. I can regard her, and speak of her with the utmost nonchalance; and as a proof, I volunteered to bring this letter from the Duke of Dalmatia to your general, relative to procuring the release of the Baron my chef, by exchanging him for some British prisoners captured at Villa Garcia, where, by some misadventure, our rear-guard was so severely cut up by your heavy cavalry under Sir Stapleton Cotton. You see, Monsieur Stuart, I am so calmed down in this matter, that I can, even without a pang, negotiate for the restoration of her husband to her arms."
At that moment a bugle from Captain Stuart's post sounded, as if warning Ronald to retire.
"A bugle call," said D'Estouville; "the officer commanding the out-picquet has lost his patience."