The news which I had brought of the positions of the armies rendered me an object of marked interest.  I was questioned on every point; first, and especially, of the intention of the commander-in-chief, with the most anxious yet most polished minuteness.  But, as on this subject my lips were comparatively sealed, the state of the troops with whom they were so soon to be brought into contact became the more manageable topic.  On mentioning that Dumourier was placed in command, I received free and full communications on the subject of his qualities for being the last hope of revolutionary France.  One had known him in his early career in the engineers, another had served along with him in Corsica, a third had met him at the court of Portugal; the concurring report being, that he was a coxcomb of the first water, showy but superficial, and though personally brave, sure to be bewildered when he found himself for the first time working the wheels and springs of that puzzling machine, an army in the field.  A caustic old Provencal marquis, with his breast glittering with the stars of a whole constellation of knighthood, yet who sat with the cross-belts and cartouche-box of the rank and file upon him, agreeing with all the premises, stoutly denied the conclusions.  “He is a coxcomb,” said the old Marquis.  “Well, he is only the fitter to command an army of upstarts.  He has seen nothing but Corsican service; well, he is the fitter to command an army of banditti.  And he has been an espion of the Government in Portugal; what better training could he have for heading an army of traitors?  Rely upon it, gentlemen, that you have mistaken his character; if you think that he is not the very man whom the mob of Paris ought to have chosen for their general, I merely recommend, that when you go into action you should leave your watches in camp, and, if you charge any of their battalions, look well to your purses.”

The old soldier’s sally restored our gaiety; but the man best acquainted with the French commander-in-chief was my friend the chevalier, at the head of the table.  “It has singularly enough happened to me to have met M. Dumourier in almost every scene of his life, since his return from his first service in Germany.  Our first meeting was in the military hospital in Toulouse, where he had been sent, like myself, to recover, in his native air, from the wounds of our last German campaign.  He was then a coxcomb, but a clever one, full of animal spirits, and intoxicated with the honour of having survived the German bullets, of being appointed to a company, and wearing a croix.  Our next meeting was in Portugal.  Our Minister had adopted some romantic idea of shaking the English influence, and Dumourier had been sent as an engineer to reconnoitre the defences of the country.  The word espion was not wholly applicable to his mission, yet there can be no doubt that the memoir published on his return, was not a volume of