e your permits on
demand of a guard. It shall be stated," he threatened, "in the
_proces-verbal_." Then Le Bour turned on his muddy heel and launched a
parting volley at the Baron denouncing his chateau and everything
connected with him.

"Do not forget the time you stole the ducks of my uncle," cried the
Baron, shaking a clenched fist at the old man, "or the morning--" But
his words were lost on Le Bour, who had disappeared in the hedge.

By eleven-thirty we had killed some two dozen birds and three hares; and
as we were now stricken with "the appetite of the wolf," we turned back
to the chateau for breakfast.

Here a sponge and a rub-down sent us in gay spirits down to the
billiard-room, where a bottle of port was in waiting--a rare bottle for
particular occasions. It was "the last of a dozen," explained the Baron
as we touched glasses, sent to the chateau by Napoleon in payment for a
night's lodging during one of his campaigns. "The very time, in fact,"
he added, "when the little towers lost their tops."

Under the spell of the Emperor's port the Vicomte regained his nerves,
and even the unpleasant incident of the morning was half forgotten while
the piano in the historic salon rang merrily under Tanrade's touch until
we filed in to luncheon.

It was as every French shooting-luncheon is intended to be--a pleasant
little fete full of good cheer and understanding; the good soup, the
decanters of Burgundy, the clean red-and-white checkered napkins and
cloth, the heavy family silver, the noiseless old servants--and what an
appetite we had! What a _souffle_ of potatoes, and such chicken
smothered in cream! And always the "good kind wine," until the famous
cheese that Tanrade had waked up Pont du Sable in procuring was passed
quickly and went out to the pantry, never to return. Ah, yes! And the
warm champagne without which no French breakfast is complete.

Over the coffee and liqueurs, the talk ran naturally to gallantry.

"Ah, _les femmes_! The memories," as the Baron had said.

"You should have seen Babette Deslys five years ago," remarked one of
our jolly company when the Baron had left the room in search of some
milder cigars.

I saw the Vicomte raise his eyebrows in subtle warning to the speaker,
who, like myself, knew the Baron but slightly. If he was treading upon
delicate ground he was unconscious of it, this _bon vivant_ of a
Parisian; for he continued rapidly in his enthusiasm, despite a second
hopeles