The door lay open into a little hall, from which two doors led into different chambers. Over one of these was marked in chalk “quartier-général,” in imitation of the title assigned to a general's quarters, and this the soldiers pronounced must belong to the corporal. I opened it accordingly and entered. The room was small and neatly furnished, and with the blazing wood upon the hearth, looked most comfortable and inviting.
“Yes, we are all right here; I know his helmet,—this is it,” said the dragoon. “So here we must leave you. You'll tell the good father it was two troopers of the Fourth who carried him hither, won't ye? Ay, and say Auguste Prévôt was one of them; he 'll know the name,—he nursed me in a fever I had in Italy.”
“I wish he were able to give me his blessing again,” said the other; “I had it before that affair at Brescia, and there were four of my comrades killed about me, and never a shot touched me. But good-night, Comrade; goodnight.” And so saying, having left the father at his length upon a couch, they made their military salute and departed.
A rude-looking flagon of beer which stood on the table was the only thing I could discover in the chamber, save a canvas bag of tobacco and some pipes. I filled a goblet with the liquor and placed it to the priest's lips. He swallowed a little of it, and then opening his eyes, slowly looked around him, while he murmured to my question a faint sound of “Better,—much better.” I knew enough of such matters to be aware that perfect rest and repose were the greatest aids to his recovery; and so, replenishing the fire, I threw myself down on the large dragoon cloak which lay on the floor, and prepared to pass my night where I was.
The long-drawn breathings of the sleeping man, the perfect quiet and stillness of all around,—for though not far distant from the village, the thick wood of trees intercepted every sound from that quarter,—and my fatigue combined, soon brought on drowsiness.
I struggled, so long as I was able, against the tendency; but a humming sound filled my ears, the objects grew fainter before my vision, and I sank into that half-dreamy state when consciousness remains, but clouded and indistinct in all its perceptions. Twice the door was opened and some persons entered; but though they spoke loudly, I heard not their words, nor could I recognize their appearance. To this succeeded a deep, sound sleep, the recompense of great fatigue.
The falling of a piece of firewood on the hearth awoke me. I opened my eyes and looked about. The room had no other light than from the embers of the wood fire and the piece of blazing pine which had just fallen; but even by that uncertain glare I could see enough to amaze and confuse me.
On the couch where I had left the priest sleeping, the old man was now seated, his head uncovered, and a scarf of light blue silk across his shoulders and falling to his feet. Before him, and kneeling, was a figure, of which for some minutes I in vain endeavored to ascertain the traits; for while in the military air of the dress there was something to mark the soldier, a waving mass of hair loosely falling on the back bespoke another sex. While I yet doubted, the flickering flame burst forth and showed me the small and beautiful shaped foot which from beneath a loose trouser peeped forth, and in the neat boot and tastefully ornamented spur I recognized in an instant it was a vivandière of the army,—one of those who, amid all the reckless abandon of the life of camps and battlefields, can yet preserve some vestige of coquetry and feminine grace.
So strange the sight, so complete the heavy stupor of my faculties, that again and again I doubted whether the whole might not be the creation of a dream; but the well-known tones of the old man's voice soon reassured me, as I heard him say,—
“I know it too, my child; I have followed too long the fortunes of an army not to feel and to sorrow for these things. But be comforted.”