“What good will it do, monsieur? what’s the use of knowing the exact age of a tree?”
“Why, madame, it will be a wonderful discovery, of the very greatest utility—for wood-choppers and dealers in wood! To be able to say the instant you see a tree: ‘It is so old—it was born under such a reign;’—why, it will be magnificent! and I shall succeed in doing it!—Ah! here’s our dear friend the Baron von Schtapelmerg.”
Croque entered the room; he was pale and haggard, and he did not walk with his usual swagger. He nodded to the husband and wife.
“Good-morning, noble baron,” said Chamoureau, offering him his hand. “You’re not ill, are you? You have rather a tired look this morning.”
“I slept badly; it doesn’t amount to anything; it will disappear after a few puffs of smoke.”
“What a fellow! he prefers a pipe to a cigar!”
“We old soldiers are used to a pipe.”
“Have you served, baron?”
“Yes, I made the campaign of—of—the war against the Turks.”
“Ah! you have fought against the Turks; no doubt that was when you received that wound on the left cheek, which left you that noble scar?”