However, the bottle when brought, was labelled cognac.
“A corkscrew? No,” said Benningsen, staying the hand of the servitor. And drawing his sabre, with one stroke he cut clean through the neck of the bottle, sending the glass fragments flying to the other end of the salon.
“That’s the way we do it in camp.”
The liqueur being poured out and watered to taste, Baranoff ventured to drink to the fair Pauline.
“You are guilty of treason,” said she. “You know that Little Paul claims the first toast.”
“O, damn Little Paul!” cried Benningsen savagely, and speaking with a recklessness that led Pauline to wonder whether he had not been taking brandy at other places besides the Embassy. “Little! Humph, that’s true, but what there is of him is quite enough! Damn the powers that be! Here’s to the powers that will be, eh?” he added, raising his glass with a significant wink at Pauline, who tried by a warning frown to check the license of his tongue.
“Your tidings?” she asked.
“The English consols are going up, and the Russian are going down,” answered the General.
“’Tis very like, thanks to the Count,” said Pauline, “but you didn’t come here merely to tell me that.”
“No. What think you is Little Paul’s latest craze? You’ll never guess, so I’ll tell you. This afternoon he put the Czarovitch under arrest!”