Of course he was always arrayed against authority, and now--being fond of his galonne with that curious doglike, deathless attachment that these natures, all reckless, wanton, destructive, and mischievous though they may be, so commonly bestow--he muttered a terrible curse under his fiercely curled mustaches.
"If the Black Hawk were nailed up in the sun like a kite on a barn-door, I would drive twenty nails through his throat!" Cecil turned rapidly on him.
"Silence, sir! or I must report you.

Another speech like that, and you shall have a turn at Beylick." It went to his heart to rebuke the poor fellow for an outburst of indignation which had its root in regard for himself, but he knew that to encourage it by so much even as by an expression of gratitude for the affection borne him, would be to sow further and deeper the poison-seeds of that inclination to mutiny and that rebellious hatred against their chief already only planted too strongly in the squadrons under Chateauroy's command.
Petit Picpon looked as crestfallen as one of his fraternity could; he knew well enough that what he had said could get him twenty blows of the stick, if his corporal chose to give him up to judgment; but he had too much of the Parisian in him still not to have his say, though he should be shot for it.
"Send me to Beylick, if you like, Corporal," he said sturdily; "I was in wrath for you--not for myself." Cecil was infinitely more touched than he dared, for the sake of discipline, for sake of the speaker himself, to show; but his glance dwelt on Petit Picpon with a look that the quick, black, monkey-like eyes of the rebel were swift to read.
"I know," he said gravely.

"I do not misjudge you, but at the same time, my name must never serve as a pretext for insubordination.

Such men as care to pleasure me will best do so in making my duty light by their own self-control and obedience to the rules of their service." He led his horse away, and Petit Picpon went on an errand he had been sent to do in the streets for one of the officers.

Picpon was unusually thoughtful and sober in deportment for him, since he was usually given to making his progress along a road, taken unobserved by those in command over him, with hands and heels in the dexterous somersaults of his early days.
Now he went along without any unprofessional antics, biting the tip of a smoked-out cigar, which he had picked up off the pavement in sheer instinct, retained from the old times when he had used to rush in, the foremost of la queue, into the forsaken theaters of Bouffes or of Varietes in search for those odds and ends which the departed audience might have left behind them--one of the favorite modes of seeking a livelihood with the Parisian night-birds.
"Dame! I will give it up then," resolved Picpon, half aloud, valorously.
Now Picpon had come forth on evil thoughts intent.
His officer--a careless and extravagant man, the richest man in the regiment--had given him a rather small velvet bag, sealed, with directions to take it to a certain notorious beauty of Algiers, whose handsome Moresco eyes smiled--or, at least, he believed so--exclusively for the time on the sender.