Chateauroy’s face darkened; he was a colossal-limbed man, whose bone was iron, and whose muscles were like oak-fibers; he had a dark, keen head like an eagle’s; the brow narrow, but very high, looking higher because the close-cut hair was worn off the temples; thin lips hidden by heavy curling mustaches, and a skin burned black by long African service.  Still he was fairly handsome enough not to have muttered so heavy an oath as he did at the vivandiere’s jest.

“Sacre bleu!  I wish my corporal were shot!  One can never hear the last of him.”

Cigarette darted a quick glance at him.  “Oh, ho; jealous, mon brave!” thought her quick wits.  “And why, I wonder?”

“You haven’t a finer soldier in your Chasseurs, mon cher; don’t wish him shot, for the good of the service,” said the Viscount de Chanrellon, who had now a command of his own in the Light Cavalry of Algiers.  “Pardieu!  If I had to choose whether I’d be backed by ‘Bel-a-faire-peur,’ or by six other men in a skirmish, I’d choose him, and risk the odds.”

Chateauroy tossed off his burgundy with a contemptuous impatience.

“Diable!  That is the exaggerated nonsense one always hears about this fellow—­as if he were a second Roland, or a revivified Bayard!  I see nothing particular in him, except that he’s too fine a gentleman for the ranks.”

“Fine? ah!” laughed Cigarette.  “He made me bow this morning like a chamberlain; and his beard is like carded silk, and he has such woman’s hands, mon Dieu!  But he is a croc-mitaine, too.”

“Rather!” laughed Claude de Chanrellon, as magnificent a soldier himself as ever crossed swords.  “I said he would eat fire the very minute he played that queer game of dice with me years ago.  I wish I had him instead of you, Chateauroy; like lightning in a charge; and yet the very man for a dangerous bit of secret service that wants the softness of a panther.  We all let our tongues go too much, but he says so little—­just a word here, a word there—­when one’s wanted—­no more; and he’s the devil’s own to fight.”

The Marquis heard the praise of his Corporal, knitting his heavy brows; it was evident the private was no favorite with him.

“The fellow rides well enough,” he said, with an affectation of carelessness; “there—­for what I see—­is the end of his marvels.  I wish you had him, Claude, with all my soul.”

“Oh, ha!” cried Chanrellon, wiping the Rhenish off his tawny mustaches, “he should have been a captain by this if I had.  Morbleu!  He is a splendid sabreur—­kills as many men to his own sword as I could myself, when it comes to a hand-to-hand fight; breaks horses in like magic; rides them like the wind; has a hawk’s eye over open country; obeys like clockwork; what more can you want?”

“Obeys!  Yes!” said the Colonel of Chasseurs, with a snarl.  “He’d obey without a word if you ordered him to walk up to a cannon’s mouth, and be blown from it; but he gives you such a d——­d languid grand seigneur glance as he listens that one would think he commanded the regiment.”