eteran
cuirassier and the officer of the Chasseurs a Cheval who had left the
tip of his nose in Russia. He excused his choice to the others.

"A cavalry affair this--you know."

He was answered with a varied chorus of "Parfaitement, mon General
. . . . C'est juste. . . . Parbleu, c'est connu. . . ." Everybody was
satisfied. The three left the cafe together, followed by cries of "Bonne
chance."

Outside they linked arms, the general in the middle. The three rusty
cocked hats worn en bataille with a sinister forward slant barred the
narrow street nearly right across. The overheated little town of grey
stones and red tiles was drowsing away its provincial afternoon under
a blue sky. The loud blows of a cooper hooping a cask reverberated
regularly between the houses. The general dragged his left foot a little
in the shade of the walls.

"This damned winter of 1813 has got into my bones for good. Never
mind. We must take pistols, that's all. A little lumbago. We must have
pistols. He's game for my bag. My eyes are as keen as ever. You should
have seen me in Russia picking off the dodging Cossacks with a beastly
old infantry musket. I have a natural gift for firearms."

In this strain General Feraud ran on, holding up his head, with owlish
eyes and rapacious beak. A mere fighter all his life, a cavalry man, a
sabreur, he conceived war with the utmost simplicity, as, in the main, a
massed lot of personal contests, a sort of gregarious duelling. And here
he had in hand a war of his own. He revived. The shadow of peace
passed away from him like the shadow of death. It was the marvellous
resurrection of the named Feraud, Gabriel Florian, engage volontaire
of 1793, General of 1814, buried without ceremony by means of a service
order signed by the War Minister of the Second Restoration.

IV

No man succeeds in everything he undertakes. In that sense we are all
failures. The great point is not to fail in ordering and sustaining the
effort of our life. In this matter vanity is what leads us astray. It
hurries us into situations from which we must come out damaged; whereas
pride is our safeguard, by the reserve it imposes on the choice of our
endeavour as much as by the virtue of its sustaining power.

General D'Hubert was proud and reserved. He had not been damaged by his
casual love affairs, successful or otherwise. In his war-scarred body
his heart at forty remained unscratched. Entering with reserve into his
sister's