‘Messieurs de la Garde Francaise,’ was a good beginning; the remainder gave him a false air of a masquerader, most uncomfortable to see; it was Nevil Beauchamp in moustache and imperial, and bagbreeches badly fitting.  He tried English, which was really himself, and all that heart could desire, supposing he addressed a body of midshipmen just a little loftily.  But the English, when translated, was bald and blunt to the verge of offensiveness.

   ’Gentlemen of the French guard,

   ’I take up the glove you have tossed us.  I am an Englishman. 
   That will do for a reason.’

This might possibly pass with the gentlemen of the English Guard.  But read: 

   ’Messieurs de la Garde Francaise,

   ‘J’accepte votre gant.  Je suis Anglais.  La raison est suffisante.’

And imagine French Guardsmen reading it!

Mr. Beauchamp knew the virtue of punctiliousness in epithets and phrases of courtesy toward a formal people, and as the officers of the French Guard were gentlemen of birth, he would have them to perceive in him their equal at a glance.  On the other hand, a bare excess of phrasing distorted him to a likeness of Mascarille playing Marquis.  How to be English and think French!  The business was as laborious as if he had started on the rough sea of the Channel to get at them in an open boat.

The lady governing his uncle Everard’s house, Mrs. Rosamund Culling, entered his room and found him writing with knitted brows.  She was young, that is, she was not in her middleage; and they were the dearest of friends; each had given the other proof of it.  Nevil looked up and beheld her lifted finger.

‘You are composing a love-letter, Nevil!’ The accusation sounded like irony.

‘No,’ said he, puffing; ’I wish I were!

‘What can it be, then?’

He thrust pen and paper a hand’s length on the table, and gazed at her.

‘My dear Nevil, is it really anything serious?’ said she.

‘I am writing French, ma’am.’

’Then I may help you.  It must be very absorbing, for you did not hear my knock at your door.’

Now, could he trust her?  The widow of a British officer killed nobly fighting for his country in India, was a person to be relied on for active and burning sympathy in a matter that touched the country’s honour.  She was a woman, and a woman of spirit.  Men had not pleased him of late.  Something might be hoped from a woman.

He stated his occupation, saying that if she would assist him in his French she would oblige him; the letter must be written and must go.  This was uttered so positively that she bowed her head, amused by the funny semi-tone of defiance to the person to whom he confided the secret.  She had humour, and was ravished by his English boyishness, with the novel blush of the heroical-nonsensical in it.