“I can remember the feud about little Sophie Derval between Monsieur de Brissac, captain in the Bodyguards and d'Anjorrant. Not the pockmarked one. The other. The Beau d'Anjorrant as they called him. They met three times in eighteen months in a most gallant manner. It was the fault of that little Sophie, too, who would keep on playing...”
“This is nothing of the kind,” interrupted General D'Hubert. He laughed a little sardonically. “Not at all so simple,” he added. “Nor yet half so reasonable,” he finished inaudibly between his teeth and ground them with rage.
After this sound nothing troubled the silence for a long time till the Chevalier asked without animation:
“What is he—this Feraud?”
“Lieutenant of Hussars, too—I mean he's a general. A Gascon. Son of a blacksmith, I believe.”
“There! I thought so. That Bonaparte had a special predilection for the canaille. I don't mean this for you, D'Hubert. You are one of us, though you have served this usurper who...”
“Let's leave him out of this,” broke in General D'Hubert.
The Chevalier shrugged his peaked shoulders.
“A Feraud of sorts. Offspring of a blacksmith and some village troll.... See what comes of mixing yourself up with that sort of people.”
“You have made shoes yourself, Chevalier.”