“‘Indeed no, Sorr,’ says I; ‘’tis a gift.’

“‘Well,’ says he, ’would ye use that same gift of yours for the honour o’ the Rig’mint?’”

O’Reilly felt in his pocket for a tobacco-stopper, attended carefully to his pipe and again fixed me with his candid gaze.

“’There’s a bit of a place ‘way back,’ says I, ’where I’ve a fancy I might find somethin’.’

“Wid that he shtuck a bunch o’ notes in me hand.  ’Don’t shpare the cost,’ says he, ’but get it.  ’Tis up to you, Sergint, to save a disp’rit situation.’”

“It was a terrible responsibility,” I said.

“Ye may say that.  Whin I was alone wid thim notes bulgin’ in me tunic, I’d a notion I might let down the Rig’mint afther all, an’ that would have bruk me heart.  But off I wint to see Achille.  ’Twas four miles to the village, an’ I wint on my blessed feet, an’ by the time I got to the place I was as nervous as a mouse in a thrap.  Achille’s shop wasn’t a cafe or an estaminet or a buvette or anny o’ thim places.  He had a bit of a brass plate on his door wid ‘Marchand de Vins’ on it.  I knew him by raison of a fancy that took me wan day for a dhrop o’ brandy.  So I wint in through Achille’s door wid thim notes as hot in me pocket as Patsy Donelly’s pipe.

“Achille hopped out o’ the little room at the hack same’s a bird out of a cage.  ‘Ah,’ says he, ’that was good cognac, eh?  You shall have more, me son.’

“‘Achille,’ says I, ’’tis a shtrange thing, but there’s niver a thought o’ cognac in me mind at all.  ’Tis red wine, the best, that I’m afther.’

“‘Red wine!’ says he.  ‘I haven’t a litre o’ red wine in the cellars.’

“‘Holy Powers!’ says I, ‘an’ you wid “Marchand de Vins” on yer door.’  The shock of it took the breath out o’ me entirely.  So I sat up on the counter to think.

“‘’Tis a matther,’ says I, ’that concerns the Rig’mint, a rig’mint that was niver bate yet.’  An’ I explained about the Gin’ral an’ what the O.C. tould me.  An’ thin I tuk the notes from me pocket an’ put thim on the counther undher his eyes.

“‘Ach,’ says he, ‘’tisn’t money I want from ye, but to hilp a frind.’  Then he folded his arms an’ his forehead wint up into a puzzle o’ wrinkles.

“‘An’ why wouldn’t white wine do?’ says he.

“‘Is it offer white wine to a Gin’ral an’ him wid a taste for red?’ says I.  ‘It might rouse him terrible.  Now, Achille,’ says I, ’would there be no way of makin’ the white red?’”

O’Reilly put a persuasiveness into the last words that revealed Achille to me as an honest merchant confronted with the most subtle of temptations.

“O’Reilly,” I said, “was that fair?”

“Maybe not, but I’d the Gin’ral an’ the honour o’ the Rig’mint fixed in me mind.  ‘That’s a good joke, very good,’ says Achille; but thore was niver a smile on his face.

“’I ‘d no intintion to make anny joke,’ says I.  ’Come, Achille, you’re a knowin’ man.  Would there be no way at all?’