“But do you really mean to say that you were absolutely wet through when you took Saumur?” said the laundress.

“Indeed we were,” answered Chapeau, “wringing wet, every man of us.”

“Lawks! how uncomfortable,” said the cook.  “And M. Henri, was he wet too?”

“Wet, to be sure he was wet as water could make him.”

“And the little Chevalier, did he get himself wet?” said the confidential maid, “poor little fellow! it was like to give him his death of cold.”

“But, Chapeau, tell me truly now:  did you kill any of those bloody republicans with your own hand?” asked the housekeeper.

“Kill them,” said Chapeau, “to be sure, I killed them when we were fighting.”

“And how many, Chapeau; how many did you positively kill dead, you know?” said the confidential maid.

“What nonsense you do talk!” answered he, with a great air of military knowledge, “as if a man in battle knows when he kills and when he doesn’t.  You’re not able to look about you in that sort of way in the middle of the smoke and noise and confusion.”

“You don’t mean to tell me you ever kill a man without knowing it!” said the housekeeper.

“You don’t understand what a battle is at all,” answered Chapeau, determined to communicate a little of his experience on the matter.  “One hasn’t time to look about one to see anything.  Now supposing you had been with us at the taking of Saumur.”

“Oh, the Lord forbid!” said the housekeeper.  “I’d sooner be in my grave any day, than go to one of those horrid bloody battles.”

“Or you, Momont; supposing you’d been there?”

“Maybe I might have done as much as another, old as I look,” replied the butler.

“I’m sure you’d have done well, Momont.  I’m sure you’d have done very well,” endeavouring to conciliate him into listening; “but supposing you had been there, or at the camp of Varin—­we’ll say Varin, for after all, we had more fighting there than at Saumur.  Supposing you were one of the attacking party; you find yourself close wedged in between your two comrades right opposite the trenches; you have a loaded musket in your hand, with a bayonet fixed to it, and you have five or six rounds of cartridges in your belt; you know that you are to do your best, or rather your worst with what you’ve got.  Well, your commander gives the word of attack.  We’ll suppose it’s the good Cathelineau.  ‘Friends,’ he will say; ’dear friends; now is the time to prove ourselves men; now is the moment to prove that we love our King; we will soon shew the republicans that a few sods of turf are no obstacles in the way of Vendean royalists,’ and then the gallant fellow rushes into the trenches; two thousand brave men follow him, shouting ‘Vive le Roi!’ and you, Momont, are one of the first.  All of a sudden, as you are just in motion, prepared for your first spring, a sharp cutting gush of air passes close to your face, and nearly blinds you; you feel