The same evening saw me the occupant of a bed in the ambulance of the Guard. Dreadful as the suffering of my wound was, I carried a deeper one within my heart.
“The Emperor has given you his own cross of the Legion, sir,” said the surgeon, endeavoring to rally me from a dejection whose source he knew not.
“He has made him a general of brigade, too,” said a voice behind him.
It was General Letort who spoke; he had that moment come from the Emperor with the tidings. I buried my head beneath my hands, and felt as though my heart was bursting.
“That was a gallant girl, that vivandière,” said the rough old general; “she must have had a soldier's heart within that corsage. Parbleu! I'd rather not have another such in my brigade, though, after what happened this evening.”
“What is it you speak of?” said I, faintly.
“They gave her a military funeral this evening,—the Fourth Cuirassiers. The Emperor gave his permission, and sent General Degeon of the staff to be present. And when they placed her in the grave, one of the soldiers,—a corporal, I believe,—kneeled down to kiss her before they covered in the earth; and when he had done so, he lay slowly down on his face on the grass. 'He has fainted,' said one of his comrades; and they turned him on his back. Morbleu! it was worse than that: he was stone dead,—one of the very finest fellows of the regiment!”
“Yes, yes! I know him,” muttered I, endeavoring to smother my emotion.
The general looked at me as if my mind was wandering, and briefly added,—