Here comes a shrewd-looking infantryman in a red shirt, his overcoat thrown over his shoulders. His face is full of good spirits and curiosity. Accompanied by two comrades, their hands behind their backs, he approaches and asks a Frenchman for a light. The latter blows into his pipe, shakes it, and offers a light to the Russian.
“Tabac bonn!” says the soldier in the red shirt, and the by-standers smile.
“Yes, good tobacco—Turkish tobacco!” answers the Frenchman; “and with you Russian tobacco good?”
“Rouss bonn!” repeats the soldier in the red shirt, and this time the spectators burst out laughing.
“Français pas bonn, bonn jour, mousiou!” continues the soldier, making a show of all he knew in French, laughing, and tapping on the stomach of the man who was talking with him. The Frenchmen also laugh.
“They are not pretty, these Russian B——,” said a Zouave.
“What are they laughing at?” asks another, with an Italian accent.
“Le caftan bonn!” the bold soldier begins again, examining the embroidered uniform of the Zouave.
“To your places, sacré nom!” shouts a French corporal at this instant.
The soldiers sulkily disperse.