He could speak of no other name—Hoche was the hero of all his thoughts; his gallantry, his daring, his military knowledge, his coolness in danger, his impetuosity in attack, his personal amiability, the mild gentleness of his manner, were themes the young soldier loved to dwell on; and however pressed by me to talk of war and its chances, he inevitably came back to the one loved theme—his general.
When the men were safely housed for the night, I invited my new friend to my own quarters, where, having provided the best entertainment I could afford, we passed more than half the night in chatting. There was nothing above mediocrity in the look or manner of the youth; his descriptions of what he had seen were unmarked by anything glowing or picturesque; his observations did not evince either a quick or a reflective mind, and yet, over this mass of commonplace, enthusiasm for his leader had shed a rich glow, like a gorgeous sunlight on a landscape, that made all beneath it seem brilliant and splendid.
‘And now,’ said he, after an account of the last action he had seen, ‘and now, enough of myself; let’s talk of thee. Where hast thou been?’
‘Here!’ said I, with a sigh, and in a voice that shame had almost made inaudible. ‘Here, here, at Nancy.’
‘Not always here?’
‘Just so. Always here.’
‘And what doing, mon cher? Thou art not one of the Municipal Guard, surely?’
‘No,’ said I, smiling sadly, ‘I belong to the “École d‘Équitation.’”
‘Ah, that’s it,’ said he, in somewhat of confusion; ‘I always thought they selected old Serjeants en retraite, worn-out veterans, and wounded fellows, for riding-school duty.’
‘Most of ours are such,’ said I, my shame increasing at every word—‘but somehow they chose me also, and I had no will in the matter——’