"I see it in his eye," my father went on to say. "I see it in his walk. I
see it in the way he arranges his papers on the table. Everything in order.
Everything put away into the smallest possible compass. All this bespeaketh
the camp."

"I don't believe he is a soldier, for all that," said I, thoughtfully. "He
is too gentle."

"The bravest soldiers, my little Gretchen, are ofttimes the gentlest,"
replied my father. "The great French hero, Bayard, and the great English
hero, Sir Philip Sidney, about whom thou wert reading 'tother day, were
both as tender and gentle as women."

"But he neither smokes, nor swears, nor talks loud," said I, persisting in
my opinion.

My father smiled, and pinched my ear.

"Nay, little one," said he, "Monsieur Maurice is not like thy father--a
rough German Dragoon risen from the ranks. He is a gentleman, and a
Frenchman; and he hath all the polish of what the Frenchman calls the
_vieille ecole_. And there again he puzzles me with his court-manners
and his powdered hair! He's no Bonapartist, I'll be sworn--yet if he be o'
the King's side, what doth he here, with the usurper at Saint Helena, and
Louis the Eighteenth come to his own again?"

"But he _is_ a Bonapartist, father," said I, "for he carries the
Emperor's portrait on his snuff-box."