"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.