they are
away from their native land.

The baroness of Marcomarcus had still another reason for getting hold of
the Colonel: for two or three years she had, as a matter of course, been
making a photographic collection of celebrated men. Her album was
peopled with generals, statesmen, philosophers, and pianists, who had
given their portraits to her, after writing on the back: "With respects
of----" There were to be found there several Roman prelates, and even a
celebrated cardinal; but a more direct envoy from the other world was
still wanting. She wrote Fougas, then, a note full of impatience and
curiosity, inviting him to supper. Fougas, who was going to start for
Dantzic next day, took a sheet of paper embossed with a great eagle, and
set to work to excuse himself politely. He feared--the delicate and
chivalrous soul!--that an evening of conversation and enjoyment in the
society of the loveliest women of Germany might be a sort of moral
infidelity to the recollection of Clementine. He accordingly hunted up
an eligible formula of address, and wrote:

"Too indulgent Beauty, I----" The muse dictated nothing more. He was not
in the mood for writing. He felt rather more in the mood for supper. His
scruples scattered like clouds driven before a brisk North East wind; he
put on the frogged surtout, and carried his reply himself. It was the
first time that he had been out to supper since his resuscitation. He
gave evidence of a good appetite, and got moderately drunk, but not as
much so as usual. The Baroness de Marcomarcus, astonished at his high
spirits and inexhaustible vivacity, kept him as long as she could. And
moreover she said to her friends, on showing them the Colonel's
portrait, "Nothing is needed but these French officers to conquer the
world!"

The next day he packed a black leather trunk which he had bought at
Paris, drew his money from the treasury, and set out for Dantzic. He
went to sleep in the cars because he had been out to supper the night
before. A terrible snoring awoke him. He looked around for the snorer,
and, not finding him near him, opened the door into the adjoining
compartment (for the German cars are much larger than the French), and
shook a fat gentleman, who seemed to have a whole organ playing in his
person. At one of the stations he drank a bottle of Marsala and ate a
couple of dozen sandwiches, for last night's supper seemed to have
hollowed out his stomach. At Dantzic, he rescued his bl