Scarcely had the general left me when mademoiselle re-entered the room.
“So Monsieur,” said she, smiling archly, “you have been left in my care, it seems. Morbleu! it's well the vivandiére of the regiment is not a prude, or I should scarcely know how to act. Well, well, one can only do one's best. And now, shall I read for you, or shall I leave you quiet for an hour or two?”
“Just so; leave him alone for a little while,” said a gruff voice from the end of the bed, at the same time that the huge beard and red mustache of Pioche appeared peeping above the curtain.
“Is he not stupid, that great animal of a cuirassier?” said mademoiselle, starting at the voice so unexpectedly heard. “I say, mon caporal, right face,—march. Do you hear, sir? You 've got the feuille de route; what do you stay for?”
“Ah, Mademoiselle!” said the poor fellow, as he smoothed down his hair on his forehead, and looked the very impersonation of sheepish admiration.
“Well?” replied she, as if not understanding his appeal to her feelings—“well?”
A look of total embarrassment, an expression of complete bewilderment, was his only reply; while his eyes wandered round the room till they met mine; and then, as if suddenly conscious that a third party was present, he blushed deeply, and said,—
“Too true, mon lieutenant; she does with me what she will.”
“Don't believe him. Monsieur,” interposed she, quickly. “I told him to get knocked on the head a dozen times, and he 's never done so.”
“I would though, and right soon too, if you were only in earnest,” said he, with a vehemence that bespoke the truth of the assertion.