“I can tell you,” said Moriarty, “for I served with him afterwards in the Peninsula. He was let back after a year or so, and became so thorough a disciplinarian, that he swore, when once he was at his post 'They might kill his father before his face and he wouldn't budge until he had orders.'”
“A most Christian resolution,” said the doctor.
“Well, I can tell you,” said Moriarty, “of a Frenchman, who made a greater breach of discipline, and it was treated more leniently. I heard the story from the man's own lips, and if I could only give you his voice and gesture and manner it would amuse you. What fellows those Frenchmen are, to be sure, for telling a story! they make a shrug or a wink have twenty different meanings, and their claws are most eloquent—one might say they talk on their fingers—and their broken English, I think, helps them.”
“Then give the story, Randal, in his manner,” said Dick. “I have heard you imitate a Frenchman capitally.”
“Well, here goes,” said Moriarty “but let me wet my whistle with a glass of claret before I begin—a French story should have French wine.” Randal tossed off one glass, and filled a second by way of reserve, and then began the French officer's story.
“You see, sare, it vos ven in Espagne de bivouac vos vairy ard indeet 'pon us, vor we coot naut get into de town at all, nevair, becos you dam Ingelish keep all de town to yoursefs—vor we fall back at dat time becos we get not support—no corps de reserve, you perceive—so ve mek retrograde movement—not retreat—no, no—but retrograde movement. Vell—von night I was wit my picket guart, and it was raining like de devil, and de vind vos vinding up de valley, so cold as noting at all, and de dark vos vot you could not see—no—not your nose bevore your face. Vell, I hear de tramp of horse, and I look into de dark—for ve vere vairy moche on the qui vive, because ve expec de Ingelish to attaque de next day—but I see noting; but de tramp of horse come closer and closer, and at last I ask, 'Who is dere?' and de tramp of de horse stop. I run forward, and den I see Ingelish offisair of cavallerie. I address him, and tell him he is in our lines, but I do not vant to mek him prisonair—for you must know dat he vos prisonair, if I like, ven he vos vithin our line. He is very polite—he says, 'Bien obligé—bon enfant;' and we tek off our hat to each ozer. 'I aff lost my roat,' he say; and I say, 'Yais'—bote I vill put him into his roat, and so I ask for a moment pardon, and go back to my caporal, and tell him to be on de qui vive till I come back. De Ingelish offisair and me talk very plaisant vile we go togezer down de leetel roat, and ven we come to de turn, I say, 'Bon soir, Monsieur le Capitaine—dat is your vay.' He den tank me, vera moche like gentilman, and vish he coot mek me some return for my générosité, as he please to say—and I say, 'Bah! Ingelish gentilman vood do de same to French offisair who lose his vay.' 'Den come here,' he say, 'bon enfant, can you leave your post for 'aff an hour?' 'Leave my post?' I say. 'Yais,' said he, 'I know your army has not moche provision lately, and maybe you are ongrie?' 'Ma foi, yais,' said I; 'I aff naut slips to my eyes, nor meat to my stomach, for more dan fife days.' 'Veil, bon enfant,' he say, 'come vis me, and I vill gif you good supper, goot vine, and goot velcome.' 'Coot I leave my post?' I say. He say, 'Bah! Caporal take care till you come back.' By gar, I coot naut resist—he vos so vairy moche gentilman and I vos so ongrie—I go vis him—not fife hunder yarts—ah! bon Dieu—how nice! In de corner of a leetel ruin chapel dere is nice bit of fire, and hang on a string before it de half of a kid—oh ciel! de smell of de ros-bif was so nice—I rub my hands to de fire—I sniff de cuisine—I see in anozer corner a couple bottles of wine—sacré! it vos all watair in my mouts! Ve sit down to suppair—I nevair did ate so moche in my life. Ve did finish de bones, and vosh down all mid ver good wine—excellent! Ve drink de toast—à la gloire—and we talk of de campaign. Ve drink à la Patrie, and den I tink of la belle France and ma douce amie—and he fissel, 'Got safe de king.' Ve den drink à l'amitié, and shek hands over dat fire in good frainship—dem two hands that might cross de swords in de morning. Yais, sair, dat was fine—'t was galliard—'t was la vrai chivalrie—two sojair ennemi to share de same kid, drink de same wine, and talk like two friends. Vell, I got den so sleepy, dat my eyes go blink, blink, and my goot friend says to me, 'Sleep, old fellow; I know you aff got hard fare of late, and you are tired; sleep, all is quiet for to-night, and I will call you before dawn.' Sair, I vos so tired, I forgot my duty, and fall down fast asleep. Veil, sair, in de night de pickets of de two armie get so close, and mix up, dat some shot gets fired, and in one moment all in confusion. I am shake by de shoulder—I wake like from dream—I heard sharp fusillade—my friend cry, 'Fly to your post, it is attack!' We exchange one shek of de hand, and I run off to my post. Oh, ciel!—it is driven in—I see dem fly. Oh, mon désespoir à ce moment-là ! I am ruin—déshonoré—I rush to de front—I rally mes braves—ve stand!—ve advance!!—ve regain de post!!!—I am safe!!!! De fusillade cease—it is only an affair of outposts. I tink I am safe—I tink I am very fine fellow—but Monsieur l'Aide-Major send for me and speak, 'Vere vos you last night, sair?' 'I mount guard by de mill.' 'Are you sure?' 'Oui, monsieur.' 'Vere vos you when your post vos attack?' I saw it vos no use to deny any longair, so I confess to him everyting. 'Sair,' said he, 'you rally your men very good, or you should be shot! Young man, remember,' said he—I will never forget his vorts—'young man, vine is goot—slip is goot—goat is goot—but honners is betters!'”
“A capital story, Randal,” cried Dick; “but how much of it did you invent?”
“'Pon my life, it is as near the original as possible.”
“Besides, that is not a fair way of using a story,” said the doctor. “You should take a story as you get it, and not play the dissector upon it, mangling its poor body to discover the bit of embellishment; and as long as a raconteur maintains vraisemblance, I contend you are bound to receive the whole as true.”
“A most author-like creed, doctor,” said Dick; “you are a story-teller yourself, and enter upon the defence of your craft with great spirit.”