cuirassier of the Guard, who had fought in all Bonaparte's campaigns.

"Ah, mon lieutenant," said he, "not supped yet, I'll wager. Come along
with me; Mademoiselle Minette has opened her canteen!"

Presently we entered a large room, at one end of which sat a very pretty
Parisian brunette, who bade me a gracious welcome. The place was crowded
with captains and corporals, lieutenants and sergeants, all hobnobbing,
hand-shaking, and even kissing each other. "Each man brings what he can
find, drinks what he is able, and leaves the rest," remarked Pioche, and
invited me to take my share in the common stock.

All went well until I absent-mindedly called out, as if to a waiter, for
bread. There was a roar of laughter at my mistake, and a little
dark-whiskered fellow stuck his sword into a loaf and handed it to me.
As I took the loaf, he disengaged his point, and scratched the back of
my hand with it. Obviously an insult was intended.

"Ah, an accident, _morbleu_!" said he, with an impertinent shrug.

"So is this!" said I, as I seized his sword and smashed it across my
knee.

"It's François, _maitre d'armes_ of the Fourth," whispered Pioche; "one
of the cleverest duellists of the army."

I was hurried out to the court, one adviser counselling me to beware of
François's lunge in tierce, another to close on him at once, and so on.
For a long time after we had crossed swords, I remained purely on the
defensive; at last, after a desperate rally, he made a lunge at my