He pushed back his chair and, crossing his legs, leaned forward and pushed his fingers across the polished mahogany till they touched the base of a wine-glass beside his plate.  One or two of the guests smiled at this formal opening.  The Vicomte’s eyes showed something of amusement behind their apathy.  But all listened.

“My tale, Miss Dorothea, is of a certain M. Benest, who until a few weeks ago was a prisoner on parole in one of your towns on the south coast.  He had been chef de hune (which, as you know, is chief petty officer) of the Embuscade frigate, captured by Sir John Warren.  In the action which lost her M. Benest lost a leg, and was placed in an English hospital, where they gave him a wooden one.

“Now how it came about that on his discharge he was allowed to live in a town—­call it a village, rather—­a haven, at any rate—­where for a couple of napoleons he might have found a boat any night of the week to smuggle him over to Roscoff, is more than I can tell you.  It may be that he had once borne another name than Benest, one to command privileges:  since many of my countrymen, as you know, have found it prudent in recent years to change their names and take up with callings below their real rank.  There, at any rate, he was; and on the day after his arrival, he and the Rector of the parish—­who was also a magistrate—­took a walk and marked out the bounds together:  two miles along the coast to the east, two miles along the coast to the west, and two miles up the valley behind the town.  At the end of these two miles the valley itself branched into two and climbed inland, the road branching likewise; and M. Benest’s mark was the signpost at the angle.

“Well, at first he walked little, because of his wooden leg.  He had lodgings with a widow in a white-washed cottage overlooking the harbour-side, and seemed happy enough there, tending a monster geranium which grew against the house-wall, or pottering about the quay and making friends with the children.  For the children soon picked up an affection for him, seeing that he was never too busy to drop his gardening and come and be umpire at their games of ‘tig’ or ‘prisoners’ bars.’  Also he had stories for them, and halfpennies or sweetmeats in mysterious pockets, and songs which he taught them:  Girofle, girofla, and Compagnons de la Marjolaine, and Les Petits Bateaux—­do you know it?—­

   “’Papa, les p’tits bateaux
   Qui vont sur I’eau,
   Ont-ils des jambes? 
   —­Mais oui, petit beta,
   S’ils n’en avaient pas, ils n’ march’raient pas!’

“In short, M. Benest, with his loose blue coat and three-cornered naval cap, endeared himself to the children, and through the children to everyone.

“It was some time before he began to take walks; and I believe he had been living in the town for six months, when one day, having stumped up the valley road for a change, and just as he was facing about for the return journey, he heard a voice in his own language singing to the air of Vive Henri Quatre.