I was sick of this long conversation, and a little sulky. “Monsieur,” said I, “you seem to reckon on the arrival of your countrymen. Doubtless the movement on their part will bring some of mine. Should you hold out till they arrive, which, however, is far from certain, depend upon it you will not again obtain your parole; you will be treated as a common prisoner.”
“Never mind,” said he; “I must take the rough with the smooth. As far as my own military experience goes, the French are quite as quick in their movements as the English; and you yourself have taught me to believe” (he bows very low indeed) “that the conduct of British officers to a French officer who happens to find himself in their power, will never be other than that of a gentleman. By the by, I have a little request to make. Should you send for assistance to Vittoria, pray let it be such a force that I may capitulate without disgrace,—not less than a corps d’armée, I beg. As to artillery, a siege-train, if you please. I could not possibly surrender to field guns.”
I felt excessively disgusted, and was about to withdraw. Yet, recollecting that, with all his gasconade, M. le Tisanier had certainly manifested a sort of good feeling, by preparing our dinner in the midst of his arrangements for defence, I paused.
“I am sorry our stock of game is so small to-day,” said I. “Will you do me the favour to accept of it?”
“No,” said he, with an air of decision; “I could not. Excuse me. A thousand thanks.”
“Come, come,” said I; “bent as you are on resistance, at least let us carry on this war without mutual animosity. Oblige me by accepting of the hares and partridges for your private use.”
“It is out of the question,” he answered firmly. “Honour forbids my compliance. Nevertheless,” he added, after a pause, as if struck by some new idea, “to prove that I am not above receiving an obligation, I will accept—the fox.”
Accept the fox? Though not exactly understanding this, I returned to where I had left the produce of the day’s sport in the keeping of the Padre and Francisco. The Padre was gone; so, making free to lift the fox from Francisco’s shoulders, I went back to the place of conference, and handed it up to M. le Tisanier, who reappeared at his window. He received the gift without explanation, but with a profusion of bows as well as many polite acknowledgments. Fortunate for him were his limber indications of gratitude; for, just as he made his first bow on receiving the slaughtered fox, the crack of a musket from an opposite hovel was accompanied by the whiz of a bullet, which passed just over his head, and, had he remained upright, would have doubtless passed through it.
“Good,” said he; “another bullet added to our store of ammunition, and one charge less in the Padre’s pouch. That was his musket.”
“Now,” said I, “be persuaded. Go in at once. The Padre will not make a second miss.”