were long lines of red-coated men, but what astonished him most was how tiny these men appeared. Their long files, which were regiments or divisions, looked to him no higher than hedgerows. A line of red cavalry was trotting toward the sunken path where the Marshal and his escort were riding, stumbling through the mud. Smoke kept them from making out anything from the direction in which they were advancing; sometimes men on horseback were silhouetted against that white smoke as they galloped past.
Suddenly Fabrizio saw four men from the enemy lines gallopingtoward him. “Ah, now we’re being attacked!” he told himself; then he saw two of these men speaking to the Marshal. One of the generals on the latter’s staff galloped off toward the enemy, followed by two hussars of the escort and the four men who had just arrived. After everyone had crossed a ditch, Fabrizio found himself beside a sergeant who seemed friendly enough. “I must speak to this fellow,” he decided, “maybe then they’ll stop staring at me.” He pondered a long while. “Monsieur, this is the first time I’ve seen battle,” he finally said to the sergeant, “but is this a real battle?”
“Real enough. Who’re you?”
“I’m a brother of the captain’s wife.”
“What’s his name, your captain?”
Our hero was dreadfully embarrassed; he had not foreseen such a question. Fortunately the Marshal and his escort galloped off again once more. “What French name shall I say?” Fabrizio wondered. Finally he remembered the name of the innkeeper where he had lodged in Paris; he rode close to the sergeant’s horse and shouted as loud as he could: “Captain Meunier!”
The man heard little enough because of the cannonade, and answered: “Captain Teulier, is it? Well, he’s been killed.”
“Fine, it’s Captain Teulier: I must look sad,” Fabrizio decided, and exclaimed: “Killed! Oh my God!” and assumed a woebegone expression.
They had left the sunken path and were crossing a little field, galloping through the hail of bullets, the Marshal heading for a cavalry division. The escort was riding over corpses and wounded men, but already such a spectacle made much less of an impression on our hero: he had other things to think about.
While the escort halted, Fabrizio noticed the little cart of a canteen-woman, and his affections for this worthy occupation prevailing over all else, he galloped over to join her.
“Stay where you are, damn you!” the sergeant shouted at him.
“What can he do to me here?” Fabrizio decided, and continued galloping toward the canteen-woman. As he spurred his horse on, he had some hope that this was his companion of the morning, the cart and horse being quite similar to those he remembered, but it was an entirely different owner that he approached, and our hero found herquite unwelcoming. As he came near, Fabrizio heard her saying: “… and such a good-looking one, too!”
A nasty sight awaited the new soldier; they were amputating a cuirassier’s leg at the thigh, a handsome fellow almost six feet tall. Fabrizio closed his eyes and drank four brandies one after the next.
“Go for it, boy!” exclaimed the canteen-woman.
The brandy gave him an idea: “I must buy the good will of my comrades in the escort.” And he told the canteen-woman to give him the rest of the bottle.
“Do you know I can get ten francs for this, on a day like today?”
As he galloped back to the escort, the sergeant exclaimed: “So you’re bringing back something for us! That’s why you deserted, is it? Hand it over.”
The bottle circulated; the last one to drink tossed it into the air. “Thanks, comrade!” he shouted to Fabrizio. All eyes were on him, approvingly now, and these stares removed a hundred-pound weight from Fabrizio’s heart, which was one of those hearts of excessive delicacy which required friendship from those around it. At last he was no longer disliked by his companions—there was a bond
Suddenly Fabrizio saw four men from the enemy lines gallopingtoward him. “Ah, now we’re being attacked!” he told himself; then he saw two of these men speaking to the Marshal. One of the generals on the latter’s staff galloped off toward the enemy, followed by two hussars of the escort and the four men who had just arrived. After everyone had crossed a ditch, Fabrizio found himself beside a sergeant who seemed friendly enough. “I must speak to this fellow,” he decided, “maybe then they’ll stop staring at me.” He pondered a long while. “Monsieur, this is the first time I’ve seen battle,” he finally said to the sergeant, “but is this a real battle?”
“Real enough. Who’re you?”
“I’m a brother of the captain’s wife.”
“What’s his name, your captain?”
Our hero was dreadfully embarrassed; he had not foreseen such a question. Fortunately the Marshal and his escort galloped off again once more. “What French name shall I say?” Fabrizio wondered. Finally he remembered the name of the innkeeper where he had lodged in Paris; he rode close to the sergeant’s horse and shouted as loud as he could: “Captain Meunier!”
The man heard little enough because of the cannonade, and answered: “Captain Teulier, is it? Well, he’s been killed.”
“Fine, it’s Captain Teulier: I must look sad,” Fabrizio decided, and exclaimed: “Killed! Oh my God!” and assumed a woebegone expression.
They had left the sunken path and were crossing a little field, galloping through the hail of bullets, the Marshal heading for a cavalry division. The escort was riding over corpses and wounded men, but already such a spectacle made much less of an impression on our hero: he had other things to think about.
While the escort halted, Fabrizio noticed the little cart of a canteen-woman, and his affections for this worthy occupation prevailing over all else, he galloped over to join her.
“Stay where you are, damn you!” the sergeant shouted at him.
“What can he do to me here?” Fabrizio decided, and continued galloping toward the canteen-woman. As he spurred his horse on, he had some hope that this was his companion of the morning, the cart and horse being quite similar to those he remembered, but it was an entirely different owner that he approached, and our hero found herquite unwelcoming. As he came near, Fabrizio heard her saying: “… and such a good-looking one, too!”
A nasty sight awaited the new soldier; they were amputating a cuirassier’s leg at the thigh, a handsome fellow almost six feet tall. Fabrizio closed his eyes and drank four brandies one after the next.
“Go for it, boy!” exclaimed the canteen-woman.
The brandy gave him an idea: “I must buy the good will of my comrades in the escort.” And he told the canteen-woman to give him the rest of the bottle.
“Do you know I can get ten francs for this, on a day like today?”
As he galloped back to the escort, the sergeant exclaimed: “So you’re bringing back something for us! That’s why you deserted, is it? Hand it over.”
The bottle circulated; the last one to drink tossed it into the air. “Thanks, comrade!” he shouted to Fabrizio. All eyes were on him, approvingly now, and these stares removed a hundred-pound weight from Fabrizio’s heart, which was one of those hearts of excessive delicacy which required friendship from those around it. At last he was no longer disliked by his companions—there was a bond
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