Under the rule of Chateauroy, consideration and courtesy
had been things long unshown to him. Involuntarily, forgetful of rank,
he stretched his hand out, on the impulse of soldier to soldier,
of gentleman to gentleman. Then, as the bitter remembrance of the
difference in rank and station between them flashed on his memory, he
was raising it proudly, deferentially, in the salute of a subordinate to
his superior, when Chanrellon's grasp closed on it readily. The victim
of Coeur d'Acier was of as gallant a temper as ever blent the reckless
condottiere with the thoroughbred noble.
The Chasseur colored slightly, as he remembered that he had forgotten
alike his own position and their relative stations.
"I beg your pardon, M. le Viscomte," he said simply, as he gave the
salute with ceremonious grace, and passed onward rapidly, as though he
wished to forget and to have forgotten the momentary self-oblivion of
which he had been guilty.
"Dieu!" muttered Chanrellon, as he looked after him, and struck his
hand on the marble-topped table till the glasses shook. "I would give a
year's pay to know that fine fellow's history. He is a gentleman--every
inch of him."
"And a good soldier, which is better," growled the General of Brigade,
who had begun life in his time driving an ox-plow over the heavy tillage
of Alsace.
"A private of Chateauroy's?" asked the Tirailleur, lifting his eye-glass
to watch the Chasseur as he went.
Pages:
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380