'Not married! not married! Haven't I been with him nearly five years, ever since the Battle of Eylau, and I'm not married? What do you say to that, Marie?'—turning to the other cantinière.
But Marie, whose marriage was of the same kind as Mother Gâteau's, said nothing.
The soldier asked Mother Gâteau if she had monté à la roue on the mountains at Wilna.
'Ah!' she said, 'if I'd been strong enough, I shouldn't have missed the chance. I picked up some in the snow, but it hasn't done me much good. When you find yourself with rascals who respect nothing, we women can never feel safe. The evening after crossing the mountain, when I reached our men's bivouac, I had still a little of the brandy I had brought from Wilna, so I gave it them for a place at the fire, and lay down to sleep on the snow near two soldiers of our regiment—or, rather, two thieves, for they cribbed half of my money. By good chance I was lying on a pocket they could not get to. Trust a comrade after that! Happily, I still have enough to take me as far as Elbing. Once there, we shall find some way of beginning the campaign afresh. I want no more carts; I will have two cognias, with baskets on their backs. We shall be luckier, perhaps. What do you say, Marie?'
Marie did not reply.
'Marie,' said the old soldier, 'has had a second husband in a year, and if she likes I will marry her for a third.'
'You, you old scamp!' answered Mother Gâteau. 'She'd be hard up to take you!'
The Chasseur went up to Marie and offered her a piece of horseflesh. Marie took it, saying, 'Thank you, mon vieux.'
'So that's settled,' he went on. 'On reaching Paris I will marry you; I will make you happy.'
For sole answer, Marie sighed, saying, 'How can you chaff an unhappy woman like me?'