Simon started.
"Do you mean," he asked sternly, "that the emigrés have dared——"
"Yes, they have dared to do just that!" and Michel swore a frightful oath. "I believe that there are Frenchmen who would lead these savages on, to roast and kill their own mothers!"
Simon had become deadly pale.
"Yes," continued the soldier. "Let me tell you about this wound." And he tore off the handkerchief around his head. His eyes at that moment fell on Simon's wooden leg, which he had not before seen. "Ah! you are one of us, then?" exclaimed Michel.
Simon nodded. "Go on with your story, my friend," he said.
"Well, we had just crossed the Rhine, and were getting on famously when we saw the detachment that had attacked us. I knew by their caps that they were Russians. We sheltered ourselves behind a wall, and then we let fly. I tell you, that was a fight! In front of me was a tall fellow who fought like the very devil. I pricked him with a bayonet, and he opened his arms wide and yelled—good Lord! I hear that yell now—'I am killed! Here! help for Talizac!' He shot at me the same moment. Now, friend, was not that a French name? But what is the matter with you?"
Simon had dropped into a chair. He was as white as a sheet, and his eyes were fixed on vacancy.
The soldier looked at him for a moment. "Come!" he said, "give me another glass, and we will drink to our country!"
At this moment Françoise came in hurriedly.