“Sentiment, no,” answered the peasant; “but I too was discharged from the Fourth Regiment of Hussars, a brave regiment, monsieur. There were only eight men left of our squadron, so when the Little Corporal passed in front of the line he saluted us—yes, monsieur, raised his hat to us! That was something to make us ready to die to the last man, look you. Ah! he was the father of the soldier!”
Here the peasant began to fill his pipe, looking the while at the black frame and the withered leaf. In this reminder of a marvelous destiny there was evidently for him a whole romance of youth, emotion, and regret. He recalled the last struggles of the Empire, in which he had taken part, the reviews held by the emperor, when his mere presence aroused confidence in victory; the passing successes of France’s famous campaign, so soon expiated by the disaster at Waterloo; the departure of the vanquished general and his long agony on the rock of Saint Helena.
Arnold respected the old soldier’s silent preoccupation and waited until he should resume the conversation.
The arrival of supper roused him from his reverie; he drew up a chair for his guest and took his place at the opposite side of the table.
“Come! fall to on the soup,” he cried brusquely. “I have had nothing since morning but two swallows of cognac. I should eat an ox whole to-night.”
To prove his words, he began to empty the huge porringer of soup before him.
For several moments nothing was heard but the clatter of spoons followed by that of the knives cutting up the side of bacon served by the farmer’s wife. His walk and the fresh air had given Arnold himself an appetite that made him forget his Parisian daintiness. The supper grew gayer and gayer, when all at once the peasant raised his head.
“And Farraut?” he asked. “I have not seen him since my return.”
His wife and the children looked at each other without answering.
“Well, what is it?” went on Moser, who saw their embarrassment. “Where is the dog? What has happened to him? Why don’t you answer, Dorothée?”