"Ah, rascal! I think I have roused your interest in my pretty one—well, if I die I care very little what happens; yes, take her my very kiss—bend over and receive it from me. It is a strange thing, Michel, but there is something in your face which reminds me of my Louise; in kissing you thus I can almost fancy it is she—I would to God it were!"
"Ah, you rave again!" murmured Louise.
CHAPTER XV.
On the following morning Louise, busy over some service on Henri's behalf, heard herself hailed by a wounded man, lying in the larger room of the house now in use as a temporary hospital. This was a sergeant in her own regiment, a rough-tongued veteran, keen in war, strict for discipline, a terror to the young conscripts of the regiment.
"Hi, you, Prevost, what the devil do you here?" he cried. "You don't seem to be wounded? May the devil claim all shirkers; why are you not with the colours?"
"I was engaged last night in tending an officer who was sorely wounded," said Louise; "I am no shirker."
"To Hell with your tending; I know what that means: the desire to be out of the line of fire combined with the hope of a pourboire; away with you and report yourself to Sergeant Villeboeuf by midday."
"But the officer——" Louise hesitated.
"Bah—he is no excuse; Monsieur the under bone-sawer," continued the fellow, addressing the doctor's assistant busy operating at his elbow, "see to this officer this shirker speaks of."