But there were plenty of folk in Paris now who loved Boney; and that was natural when you think of the glory that he had brought them, and how he had never asked his army to go where he would not go himself.  They had stern enough faces for us, I can tell you, when we marched in, and we of Adams’ brigade were the very first who set foot in the city.  We passed over a bridge which they call Neuilly, which is easier to write than to say, and through a fine park—­the Bois de Boulogne, and so into the Champs d’Elysees.  There we bivouacked, and pretty soon the streets were so full of Prussians and English that it became more like a camp than a city.

The very first time that I could get away I went with Rob Stewart, of my company—­for we were only allowed to go about in couples—­to the Rue Miromesnil.  Rob waited in the hall, and I was shown upstairs; and as I put my foot over the mat, there was Cousin Edie, just the same as ever, staring at me with those wild eyes of hers.  For a moment she did not recognise me, but when she did she just took three steps forward and sprang at me, with her two arms round my neck.

“Oh, my dear old Jock,” she cried, “how fine you look in a red coat!”

“Yes, I am a soldier now, Edie,” said I, very stiffly; for as I looked at her pretty face, I seemed to see behind it that other face which had looked up to the morning sky on the Belgium battle-field.

“Fancy that!” she cried.  “What are you, then, Jock?  A general?  A captain?”

“No, I am a private.”

“What!  Not one of the common people who carry guns?”

“Yes, I carry a gun.”

“Oh, that is not nearly so interesting,” said she.  And she went back to the sofa from which she had risen.  It was a wonderful room, all silk and velvet and shiny things, and I felt inclined to go back to give my boots another rub.  As Edie sat down again, I saw that she was all in black, and so I knew that she had heard of de Lissac’s death.

“I am glad to see that you know all,” said I, for I am a clumsy hand at breaking things.  “He said that you were to keep whatever was in the boxes, and that Antoine had the keys.”

“Thank you, Jock, thank you,” said she.  “It was like your kindness to bring the message.  I heard of it nearly a week ago.  I was mad for the time—­quite mad.  I shall wear mourning all my days, although you can see what a fright it makes me look.  Ah!  I shall never get over it.  I shall take the veil and die in a convent.”

“If you please, madame,” said a maid, looking in, “the Count de Beton wishes to see you.”

“My dear Jock,” said Edie, jumping up, “this is very important.  I am sorry to cut our chat short, but I am sure that you will come to see me again, will you not, when I am less desolate?  And would you mind going out by the side door instead of the main one?  Thank you, you dear old Jock; you were always such a good boy, and did exactly what you were told.”