Although Ronald had no acquaintances in Paris, excepting those made by frequenting public places, yet he was well pleased with the Parisians, and as long as he had money to spare and to spend, he enjoyed himself in a manner that he had never done before. Through his banker in London, he drew many a cool hundred on his Scotch agents, Messrs. Diddle and Fleece; and, for a time, he wasted among grisettes, Frenchmen, and fools, rather more than was quite prudent. Being junior major, he had of course nothing to do but to amuse himself, appear on parade once a-day, and ride round the guards and posts when on duty: he spent the whole day in Paris, and generally returned to camp when the _reveille_ was beating, so that his hours were rather _early_ than late.
One evening, when making up a party for the next day, the hard visage of Sergeant Macrone appeared at the door of the tent, announcing that his round of pleasure was closed. The orderly-book—that tome of ill omen, with its brass clasps and parchment boards, was handed in, while the non-commissioned officer, raising his hand to his sunburned and wrinkled forehead, conveyed the unpleasant intelligence "that her honour was for tuty,—no the tay pefore the morn, put the fera neist."
"To-morrow? The devil, Macrone! do you say so?" cried the impatient major, snatching the book from the hand of the Celt, and scanning over the brigade orders. "’Major Ronald Stuart, of the Gordon Highlanders, will take command of the detachment ordered to proceed to—’ to where? A cursed cramped hand this! Who wrote these orders, Macrone?"
"Stupid! Could you not have said so at once. ’—Command of the detachment proceeding to the Château de Marielle, to relieve the Hanoverian regiment of Kloster Zeven.’ Does anybody know where the Château de Marielle is?"
"Two days’ march from this," said Macildhui; "near Melun. I know the place. Archy Douglas and I have shot and coursed over it for a whole week, without leave or license. ’Tis the property of the Marquis of Laurieston."
"What!" exclaimed one, "old Clappourknuis’s brother?"
"And what do the wiseacres at head-quarters mean, in sending a detachment there?"
"I suppose they scarcely know themselves. But obedience— We all know the adage."