“'Alsace, mon général,' was the answer from every one.
“'I thought so, I thought so,' said he; 'Sybarites, all.'
“'No, mon général, grenadiers of the Fourth. Milhaud's brigade,' said I. And with that he turned away, and we could hear him laughing long after he galloped off. I saw he mistook us,” said Pioche, “and that he could not be angry with the old Fourth.”
“You must have seen a great deal of hardship, Pioche,” said I, as he came to a pause, and wishing to draw him on to speak more of his campaigns.
“Ma foi! there were few who saw service from '92 to '97 had not their share of it. But they were brave times, too; every battle had its day of promotion afterwards. Le Petit Caporal would ride down the ranks with his staff, looking for this one, and asking for that. 'Where 's the adjutant of the Sixth?' 'Dead, mon général.' 'Where 's the colonel of the Voltigeurs?' 'Badly wounded.' 'Carry him this sabre of honor.' 'Who fell over the Austrian standard, and carried away the fragment of the drapeau?' 'One of my fellows. General; here he is.' 'And what is your name, my brave fellow?'”
The corporal paused here, and drew a deep breath; and after a few seconds' pause, added in altered tone, “Sacristi! they were fine times!”
“But what did he say to the soldier that took the colors?” asked I, impatiently. “Who was he?”
“It was I,” replied Pioche himself, in a deep voice, where pride and devotion struggled powerfully together.
“You, Pioche! indeed! Well, what said the general when he saw you?”
“'Ah, Pioche,' said he, gayly, 'my old friend of Toulouse!'