Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II. Lever Charles James

can’t be had,” said another, handing me a goblet of red wine.

      “Par Saint Denis! it’s the very man himself,” shouted a third. “Why, Burke, my old comrade, do you forget Tascher?”

      “What!” said I, in amazement, turning from one to the other of the mustached faces, and unable to discover my former friend, while they laughed loud and long at my embarrassment.

      “Make way for him there; make way, lads! Come, Burke, here’s your place,” said he, stretching out his hand and pressing me down beside him on the straw. “So you did not remember me?”

      In truth, there was enough of change in his appearance since last I saw him to warrant my forgetfulness. A dark, bushy beard, worn cuirassier fashion, around the mouth and high on the cheeks, almost concealed his face, while in figure he had grown both taller and stouter.

      “Art colonel of the Eighth Regiment?” said he, laughing; “you know I promised you were to be, when we were to meet again.”

      “No; but, if I mistake not,” said a hussar officer opposite, “monsieur is in the way to become so. Were you not named to a troop, about half an hour ago, by the Emperor himself?”

      “Yes!” said I, with an effort to suppress my pride.

      “Diantre bleu!” exclaimed Tascher, “what good fortune you always have I I wish you joy of it, with all my heart. I say, Comrades, let us drown his commission for him.”

      “Agreed! agreed!” cried they all in a breath. “Francois will make us a bowl of punch for the occasion.”

      “Most willingly,” said the little maître d’armes. “Monsieur le Capitaine, I am sure, bears me no ill-will for our little affair. I thought not,” added he, seizing my hand in both his. “Ma foi! you spoiled my tierce for me; I shall never be the same man again. Now, gentlemen, pass down the brandy, and let the man with most credit go seek for sugar at the canteen.”

      While François commenced his operations, Tascher proceeded to recount to me the miserable life he had spent in garrison towns, till the outbreak of the campaign had called him on active service.

      “It was no use that I asked the Empress to intercede for me, and get me appointed to another regiment; being the nephew of Napoleon seemed to set a complete bar to my advancement. Even now,” said he, “my name has been sent forward by my colonel for promotion, and I wager you fifty Naps I shall be passed over.”

      “And what if you be?” said a huge, heavy-browed major beside him; “what great hardship is it to be a lieutenant in the cuirassiers at two and twenty? I was a sergeant ten years later.”

      “Ay, parbleu!” cried another, “I won my epaulettes at Cairo, when three officers were reported living, in a whole regiment.”

      “To be sure,” said François, looking up from his operation of lemon-squeezing; “here am I, a maître d’armes, after twenty-six years’ service; and there’s Davoust, who never could stand before me, he’s a general of brigade.”

      The whole party laughed aloud at the grievances of Maître Francois, whose seriousness on the subject was perfectly real.

      “Ah; you may laugh,” said he, half in pique; “but what a mere accident can determine a man’s fortune in life! Would Junot there be a major-general to-day if he did not measure six feet without his boots? We were at school together, and, ma foi! he was always at the bottom of the class.”

      “And so, Francois, it was your size, then, that stopped your promotion?”

      “Of course it was. When a man is but five feet – with high heels, too – he can only be advanced as a maître d’armes. Parbleu! what should I be now if I had only grown a little taller?”

      “It is all better as it is,” growled out an old captain, between the puffs of his meerschaum. “If thou wert an inch bigger, there would be’ no living in the same brigade with thee.”

      “For all that,” rejoined Maître François, “I have put many a pretty fellow his full length on the grass.”

      “How many duels, François, did you tell us, the other evening, that you fought in the Twenty-second?”

      “Seventy-eight!” said the little man; “not to speak of two affairs which, I am ashamed to confess, were with the broadsword; but they were fellows from Alsace, and they knew no better.”

      “Tonnerre de ciel!” cried the major, “a little devil like that is a perfect plague in a regiment. I remember we had a fellow called Piccotin – ”

      “Ah! Piccotin; poor Piccotin! We were foster-brothers,” interrupted Francois; “we were both from Châlons-sur-Marne.”

      “Egad! I ‘d have sworn you were,” rejoined the major. “One might have thought ye were twins.”

      “People often said so,” responded François, with as much composure as though a compliment had been intended. “We both had the same colored hair and eyes, the same military air, and gave the passe en tierce always outside the guard exactly in the same way.”

      “What became of Piccotin?” asked the major. “He left us at Lyons.” “You never heard, then, what became of him?” “No. We knew he joined the chasseurs à pied.” “I can tell you, then,” said Francois; “no one knows better. I parted from Piccotin when we were ordered to Egypt. We did our best to obtain service in the same brigade, for we were like brothers, but we could not manage it; and so, with sad hearts, we separated, – he to return to France, I to sail for Alexandria. This was in the spring of 1798, or, as we called it, the year Six of the Republic. For three years we never met; but when the eighth demi-brigade returned from Egypt, we went into garrison at Bayonne, and the first man I saw on the ramparts was Piccotin himself. There was no mistaking him; you know the way he had of walking with a long stride, rising on his instep at every step, squaring his elbows, and turning his head from side to side, just to see if any one was pleased to smile, or even so much as to look closely at him. Ah, ma foi! little Piccotin knew how to treat such as well as any one. Methinks I see him approaching his man with a slide and a bow, and then, taking off his cap, I hear him say, in his mildest tone, ‘Monsieur assuredly did not intend that stare and that grimace for me. I know I must have deceived myself. Monsieur is only a fool; he never meant to be impertinent.’ Then, parbleu! what a storm would come on, and how cool was Piccotin the whole time! How scrupulously timid he would be of misspelling the gentleman’s name, or misplacing an accent over it! How delicately he would inquire his address, as if the curiosity was only pardonable I And then with what courtesy he would take his leave, retiring half a dozen paces before he ventured to turn his back on the man he was determined to kill next morning!”

      “Quite true; perfectly true, Francois,” said the major; “Piccotin did the thing with the most admirable temper and good-breeding.”

      “That was the tone of Chalons when we were both boys,” said François, proudly; “he and I were reared together.”

      He finished a bumper of wine as he made this satisfactory explanation, and looked round at the company with the air of a conqueror.

      “Piccotin saw me as quickly as I perceived him, and the minute after we were in each other’s arms. ‘Ah! mon cher! how many?’ said he to me, as soon as the first burst of enthusiasm had subsided.

      “‘Only eighteen,’ said I, sadly; ‘but two were Mamelukes of the Guard.’

      “‘Thou wert ever fortunate, François,’ he replied, wiping his eyes with emotion; ‘I have never pinked any but Christians.’

      “‘Come, come,’ said I, ‘don’t be down-hearted; good times are coming. They say Le Petit Caporal will have us in England soon.’

      “‘Mayhap,’ said he, sorrowfully, for he could not get over my Turks. Well, in order to cheer him up a little, I proposed that we should go and sup together at the ‘Grenadier Rouge;’ and away we went accordingly.

      “It would amuse you, perhaps,”