“And yet you saw me in a worse plight, general,” said I, coolly.
“How so—where was that?” cried he.
“It will be a sore wound to my pride, general,” said I slowly, “if I must refresh your memory.”
“You were not at Valenciennes,” said he, musing. “No, no; that was before your day. Were you on the Meuse, then? No. Nor in Spain? I’ve always had hussars in my division; but I confess I do not remember all the officers.”
“Will Genoa not give the clew, sir?” said I, glancing at him a keen look.
“Least of all,” cried he. “The cavalry were with Soult. I had nothing beyond an escort in the town.”
“So there’s no help for it,” said I, with a sigh. “Do you remember a half-drowned wretch that was laid down at your feet in the Annunziata Church one morning during the siege?”
“A fellow who had made his escape from the English fleet, and swam ashore! What! are you—By Jove! so it is, the very same. Give me your hand, my brave fellow. I’ve often thought of you, and wondered what had befallen you. You joined that unlucky attack on Monte Faccio; and we had warm work ourselves on hands the day after. I say, Vandamme, the first news I had of our columns crossing the Alps were from this officer—for officer he was, and shall be again, if I live to command a French division.”
Massena embraced me affectionately, as he said this; and then turning to the others, said—