“We shall expect you at the bivouac,” cried the sergeant, as he resumed his way; while I, eager to return, breasted the mountain with renewed energy.
“You belong to the Guard, my friends,” said I, as I paused for breath at a turn of the path.
“The Fourth Cuirassiers of the Guard,” replied the soldier I addressed; “Milhaud's brigade.”
How my heart leaped as he said these words! They were part of the division General d'Auvergne once commanded; it was the regiment of poor Pioche, too, before the dreadful day of Austerlitz.
“You know the Fourth, then?” rejoined the man, as he witnessed the agitation of my manner.
“Know the Fourth?” echoed his comrade, in a voice of half-indignant meaning. “Sacrebleu!who does not know them? Does not all the world know them by this time?”
“It is the Fourth who wear the motto 'Dix contre un' on their caps,” said I, desirous to flatter the natural vanity of my companions.
“Yes, Monsieur; I see you have served also.”
I answered by a nod, for already every word, every gesture, recalled to me the career I had quitted; and my regrets, so late subdued by reason and reflection, came thronging back, and filled ray heart to bursting.
Hurrying onward now, I mounted the steep path, and soon regained the spot I sought. The poor father was sleeping; overcome by fatigue and weariness, he had fallen on the mossy bank, and lay in a deep, soft slumber. Lifting him gently, the strong troopers crossed their hands beneath, and bore him along between them. For an instant he looked up; but seeing me at his side, he merely pressed my hand, and closed his eyes again.