ebrow, was
a desperate scar, that I at once associated in my own mind with the
red ribbon of the Legion that he wore in the button-hole of his black
frock-coat. He looked the officer in retreat, and the very gentleness
and sweetness of his manner made me sure that he had done some gallant
fighting in his time.

As the train pulled out from the station--it was at Tarascon that they
had joined me--he drew forth from his pocket a black little wooden pipe
and a tobacco-bag. This was my opportunity. I also drew forth a pipe and
a tobacco-bag. Would Monsieur accept some of my tobacco? I asked. I had
brought it, I added, from America; it was tobacco of the Havana.

"Monsieur then is an American. That is interesting. And his tobacco is
from the Havana, that is more interesting still. My cousin's son has
been for many years in America. His name is Marius Guiraud; he lives in
San Francisco; possibly Monsieur and he have met?"

Monsieur regretted that he had not had this pleasure, and explained
that his home was in New York--three times as far from San Francisco as
Marseilles was from Paris.

"Name of a name! Is it possible? How vast this America must be! And they
tell me--" Here he struck a wax match and paused to light his pipe. He
drew a dozen whiffs in silence, while on his face was the thoughtful
look of one whose taste in tobacco was critical and whose love for it
was strong.

"Thunder of guns, but it is good!" he exclaimed, as he took the pipe
from his mouth and passed it lightly back and forth beneath his nose.
"Had we smoked tobacco like this in the Crimea we should have whipped
those rascal Russians in a single week. Ah, that we often were without
tobacco was the hardest part of all. I have smoked coffee grounds and
bay, Monsieur, and have been thankful to get them--I myself, who well
know what is good and what is not good in a pipe! This tobacco--it is
divine!"

"Monsieur served in the Crimea?"

"This is the proof of it," he said, a little grimly, touching the scar
on his forehead.

"And this," his wife added, touching the bit of red ribbon in his
button-hole. "He was the bravest man in all that war, Monsieur, this old
husband of mine. His cross was given him by--"

"Tchut, little one! What does Monsieur care how I got my cross? It was
not much that I did. Any man would have done the same."

"But the others did _not_ do the same. They ran away and left thee to do
it alone. Did not his Majesty tell thee--"