“I am an old soldier, and the alternative you offer is not repugnant to me. I, too, for three months have had the habit of resorting to this sweet spot, and to it I have consecrated the last enjoyments of a life without happiness.
“You speak of your misfortunes,” added he, with a serious smile; “mine do not cede to them in number or severity: I was noble and wealthy before the Revolution, but on my return, after a long absence, I found France republican, and I too became a republican from love to her. My nobility was opposed to public opinion—I renounced it. My wealth appeared to insult the public poverty—I offered my entire fortune upon the altar of my country. The enemy menaced our frontiers—I hastened to join the phalanx under Moreau. I gave my all to France—my name, my blood, my fortune. But Bonaparte appeared, and nothing remained for me to offer to the expiring Republic but my tears and my despair. Advances were made to me—I rejected them. They would have restored my fortune and my rank—I preferred my honor and my misery—and it was only in 1815, when France made a last effort, that I prepared to die at Waterloo. Alas! much better would it have been to have died there! Prisoner, and designedly overlooked in the exchanges, (for you are aware that it could not be forgiven to a count to have fought for France,) I was banished to the end of Russia, dragged to Tobolsk, and abandoned there without resources to all the horrors of nakedness and hunger.
“How I escaped from those deserts would not interest you. Heaven has permitted me to revisit France, and here I am a mark for the resentments of the throne; regarded as a traitor to the monarchy, and contemned by those who to-day might aid me.”
The old man on concluding these words slowly crossed his arms upon his breast, his head drooped, as if memory remounted the lapse of years of misfortune, and without apparent consciousness of the presence of his interlocutor.
The major, let us say it to his praise, had equally lost sight of the subject of their quarrel. Touched by this recital, which awakened in his heart sensibilities somewhat moss-grown by age, he approached the unknown, and placing his hand upon his arm, said in a voice filled with emotion—
“Providence has had its secret designs, my dear count, (for I perceive you bear that title,) in permitting two unfortunates such as we are to cross each other’s path; and if I experience something soothing to my pain in listening to the recital of your sorrows, it is in thinking that you have met the only person in the world capable of sympathizing with you as you deserve.”
“You forget, my dear sir,” replied the blue coat, smiling blandly, “that we have to cut each other’s throats to-morrow.”
The major hung his head in confusion.
“Hear me,” said the old soldier of the Republic. “I do not really think that this affair is important enough to fight about. Confess, besides, that such pastime does not become our age. Ah! there was a time I did not say so! In coming from the theatre, I as willingly went to fight at the Porte Maillôt as to laugh at the Café Procope. Sir, would you believe it, he who speaks to you has fought and been wounded, and afterward voyaged six thousand miles to seek his antagonist, and all because one evening Mademoiselle Guimard, the younger, let her handkerchief fall!”
“What do I hear!” exclaimed Major Anspach, making a start of surprise, “you said—you—ah! mon Dieu!”