“Do you ever go to her house?”
“No,” said the boy carelessly. “Our nurses are friends, and we promenade together. I do not care for girls. I like men. May I count you as one of my friends, sir?” and stopping himself quickly by sticking the heels of his shoes in the ground, he made the sergeant a low bow.
“I’m sure I’ll be delighted,” said the sergeant, grinning at him.
“And may I request the honor of your name,” pursued the boy. “My grandfather will ask me”—
“Stephen Hardy, at your service, sir—plain Stephen Hardy, no marshals nor lords, not even a captain in my string—only plain Yankee sailors for grandfathers.”
“Ah, you belong to the bourgeoisie,” said Eugene, “or possibly the peuple. I should be more pleased if you had the particule before your name. De Hardy would be better. However, in this country one must let that pass. You are, nevertheless, not a peasant. One can see that by your bearing.”
“What’s your grandfather’s business?” asked the sergeant bluntly.
The boy blushed a furious crimson. “In this country he has no friends, no influence, his property was taken away—at present he assists a countryman in”—
“In teaching French?” asked the sergeant kindly.