"Yes."
"A guest?"
"The Vicomte de Morteyn is my uncle."
The officer burst into a boyish laugh.
"Jack Marche!"
"Eh!" cried Jack, startled.
Then he looked more closely at the young officer before him, who was laughing in his face.
"Well, upon my word! No--it can't be little Georges Carrière?"
"Yes, it can!" cried the other, briskly; "none of your damned airs, Jack! Embrace me, my son!"
"My son, I won't!" said Jack, leaning forward joyously--"the idea! Little Georges calls me his son! And he's learning the paternal tricks of the old generals, and doubtless he calls his troopers 'mes enfants,' and--"
"Oh, shut up!" said Georges, giving him an impetuous hug; "what are you up to now--more war correspondence? For the same old Herald? Nom d'une pipe! It's cooler here than in Oran. It'll be hotter, too--in another way," with a gay gesture towards the valley below. "Jack Marche, tell me all about everything!"
On either side the blue-jacketed troopers fell back, grinning with sympathy as Georges guided his horse into a field on the right, motioning Jack to follow.
"We can talk here a bit," he said; "you've lots of time to ride on. Now, fire ahead!"
Jack told him of the three years spent in idleness, of the vapid life in Paris, the long summers in Brittany, his desire to learn to paint, and his despair when he found he couldn't.
"I can sketch like the mischief, though," he said. "Now tell me about Oran, and our dear General Chanzy, and that devil's own 'Legion,' and the Hell's Selected 2d Zouaves! Do you remember that day at Damas when Chanzy visited the Emir Abd-el-Kader at Doummar, and the fifteen Spahis of the escort, and that little imp of the Legion who was caught roaming around the harem, and--"
Georges burst into a laugh.
"I can't answer all that in a second! Wait! Do you want to know about Chanzy? Well, he's still in Bel-Abbès, and he's been named commander of the Legion of Honour, and he's no end of a swell. He'll be coming back now that we've got to chase these sausage-eaters across the Rhine. Look at me! You used to say that I'd stopped growing and could never aspire to a mustache! Now look! Eh? Five feet eleven and--what do you think of my mustache? Oh, that African sun sets things growing! I'm lieutenant, too."
"Does the African sun also influence your growth in the line of promotion?" asked Jack, grinning.
"Same old farceur, too!" mused Georges. "Now, what the mischief are you doing here? Oh, you are staying at Morteyn?"