“Soldier,” said Valmond in a loud voice, “remember Austerlitz. The Heights of Pratzen are before you. Play up the feet of the army.”
For an instant the old man did not move, and then a sullen sort of look came over his face. He was not a drummer at Austerlitz, and for the instant he did not remember the tune the drummers played.
“Soldier,” said Valmond softly, “with ‘the Little Sword that Danced’ play up the feet of the army.”
A light broke over the old man’s face. The swift look he cast on Valmond had no distrust now. Instantly his hand went to his cap.
“My General!” he said, and stepped in front of the white horse. There was a moment’s pause, and then the sergeant’s arms were raised, and down came the sticks with a rolling rattle on the leather. They sent a shiver of feeling through the village, and turned the meek white horse into a charger of war. No man laughed at the drama performed in Pontiac that day, not even the little coterie who were present, not even Monsieur De la Riviere, whose brow was black with hatred, for he had watched ‘the eyes of Madame Chalice fill with tears at the old sergeant’s tale of Auerstadt, had noticed her admiring glance, “at this damned comedian,” as he now called Valmond. When he came to her carriage, she said, with oblique suggestion:
“What do you think of it?”
“Impostor! fakir!” was his sulky reply. “Nothing more.”
“If fakirs and impostors are so convincing, dear monsieur, why be yourself longer? Listen!” she added. Valmond had spoken down at the aged drummer, whose arms were young again, as once more he marched on Pratzen. Suddenly from the sergeant’s lips there broke, in a high, shaking voice, to the rattle of the drum:
“Conscrits, au pas;
Ne pleurez pas;
Ne pleurez pas;
Marchez au pas,
Au pas, au pas, au pas, au pas!”
They had not gone twenty yards before fifty men and boys, caught in the inflammable moment, sprang out from the crowd, fell involuntarily into rough marching order, and joined in the inspiring refrain: