She took from a little shelf the cup, as she spoke, and held it up before me with the devoted admiration with which some worshipper would regard a holy relic.
“And that,” said Minette, as she pressed to her lips a faded cockade, whose time-worn tints still showed the tricolored emblems of the Republic—“that do I value above the cross of the Legion itself.”
“Whose was it, Minette? Some brave soldier's, I'm sure.”
“And you may be sure. That was the cockade of Le Premier Grenadier de la France,—La Tour d'Auvergne, the cousin of your own general.”
Seeing that I had not heard before of him, she paused for a few seconds in amazement, and then muttered, “A brave school to train the youth of France it must be where the name of La Tour d' Auvergne was never mentioned!”
Having thus vented her indignation, she proceeded to tell me of her hero, who, though descended from one of the most distinguished families of France, yet persisted in carrying his musket in the ranks of the Republican army, never attaining to a higher grade, nor known by any other title than the “Premier Grenadier de la France.” Foremost in every post of danger, the volunteer at every emergency of more than ordinary peril, he refused every proffer of advancement, and lived among his comrades the simple life of a soldier.
“He fell at Neuburg,” said mademoiselle, “scarce a day's march from here; they buried him on the field, and placed him dead, as he had been ever while living, with his face towards the enemy. And you never heard of him? Juste Ciel! it is almost incredible. You never brigaded with the Forty-fifth of the line; that 's certain.”
“And why so?”
“Because they call his name at every parade muster as though he were still alive and well. The first man called is La Tour d' Auvergne, and the first soldier answers, 'Mort sur le champ de bataille.' That 's a prouder monument than your statues and tombstones—is it not?”
“Indeed it is,” said I, to whom the anecdote was then new, though I afterwards lived to hear it corroborated in every respect.