"But what does it
all mean, Christian?"
"It means, field-marshal, that this is your birthday, and that you
are seventy-one years old to-day."
"That is true," said Blucher to himself. "My birthday! I had given
strict orders not to celebrate it, and I had forgotten it myself!"
"But no one can prevent me from celebrating it, your excellency!"
exclaimed Christian. "That would be very pretty, if I could not
congratulate my 'Marshal Forward' on his birthday. Long live my
field-marshal! And may God spare him many years to us yet, that we
may catch Bonaparte at Paris; for, if 'Marshal Forward' does not do
it, no one will!"
"Yes, if they would only let me!" cried Blucher, striking with his
hand on the table; "but they will not! I am sitting here like a pug-
dog in a deal box, and Bonaparte stands outside; I can only bark--I
cannot bite him, for they will not let me out."
"They will have to, your excellency," said Hennemann, quickly, "and
before many pipes are smoked. But I would request your excellency to
be so kind as to smoke this pipe." He drew forth his right hand,
which he had held behind him, and produced a short pipe, neatly
adorned with a rose-colored ribbon terminating in a rosette with two
long ends. "Field-marshal," he said, "in return for all the favors
you have conferred on me, a poor boy, and for having made me, a
stupid peasant-lad, pipe-master of the famous Field-Marshal Blucher,
I take the liberty of presenting you with this short pipe.
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