“But why so? Bonaparte knew you well; he often noticed you.”
“True; all true,” said he, more sadly than before. “But then—”
“What, then?” asked I, with more of interest than delicacy at the moment.
“I never learned to read,” said Pioche, in a low voice, which trembled with agitation, while he drew his swarthy hand across his eyes, and was silent.
The few words so spoken thrilled most powerfully within me. I saw that I had awakened the saddest thoughts of the poor fellow's heart, and would have given worlds to be able to recall my question. Here, then, was the corroding sorrow of his life,—the grief that left its impress on his stern features, and tinged with care the open brow of the brave soldier. Each moment our silence was prolonged made it still more poignant, but I made an effort to break it, and happily with success.
“After all, Pioche,” said I, laying my hand on his arm, “I would willingly exchange my epaulettes for these stripes on your sleeve, to have had Bonaparte speak to me as he has spoken to you; that was a prouder distinction than any other, and will be a fonder recollection, too, hereafter.”
“Do you think so, mon lieutenant?” said the poor fellow, turning round quickly, as a faint smile played about his features—“do you think so? Sacristi! I have said as much to myself sometimes, when I've been alone. And then I 've almost thought I could hear his kind, soft voice ringing in my ears; for it is kind and soft as a woman's, when he pleases, though, parbleu! it can call like a trumpet at other times,—ay, and tingle within your heart till it sets your blood boiling and makes your hands twitch. I mind well the campaign in the Valais; the words keep dinning in my ears to this hour.”
“What was that, Pioche?” said I, pleased to see him turn from the remembrance of his own regrets.
“It is a good while past now,—I forget the year exactly,—but we were marching on Italy, and it was in spring. Still, the ground was covered with snow; every night came on with a hailstorm that lasted till nigh daybreak, and when we arose from the bivouac we were so stiff and frozen we could not move. They said at the time something went wrong with the commissariat; but when did it ever go right, I wonder? Ammunition and provisions were always late; and though the general used to drive away a commissary every week or ten days for misconduct, the new ones that came turned out just as bad. The Petit Caporal kept sending them word to Paris not to send down any more 'savants,' but a good, honest man, with common sense and active habits. But, parbleu, birds of that feather must have been rare just then, for we never could catch one of them. Whatever was the cause, we never were so ill off; our shakos were like wet paper, and took any shape; and out of ridicule we used to come upon parade with them fashioned into three-cocked hats, and pointed caps, and slouched beavers. The officers couldn't say a word, you know, all this time; it was not our fault if we were in such misery. Then, as to shoes,—a few could boast of the upper leathers, but a sole or a heel was not to be found in a company. Our coats were actually in rags, and a pivot sentry looked for all the world like a flagstaff, as he stood fluttering in the wind.
“We bore up, however, as well as we could, for some time, grumbling occasionally over our condition, and sometimes laughing at it when we had the heart; till at last, when we saw the new convoy arrive, and all the biscuits distributed among the young regiments and the new conscripts, we could endure it no longer, and a terrible outcry arose among the troops. We were all drawn up on parade,—it was an inspection; for, parbleu! though we were as ragged as scarecrows, they would have us out twice a week to review us, and put us through the manoeuvres. Scarcely had the general—it was Bonaparte himself—got halfway down the line, when a shout ran from rank to rank: 'Bread! shoes! caps! biscuits!'