"Thou hast seen," said the voice of his companion, very softly, very solemnly,—"thou hast seen simply what it is to be a soldier of France!"
His hand rested an instant on the drummer's shoulder, with the ghost of a caress.
"My little one," he added, tenderly, "forget not this. It matters nothing whether one is Emperor of the French or the smallest drummer of the corps, whom men call 'Little Tapin.' I, too, was called 'little' in the time—'The Little Corporal' they called me, from Moscow to the Loire. But it is all the same. Chief of the army, drummer of the corps, on the field of battle, in the gardens of the Tuileries, routing the Prussians, or drumming out the voyous,—it is all the same, my little one, it is all the same. All that is necessary is to understand—to understand that it is all and always for la belle France. Empire or republic, in peace or war—what difference? It is still France, still the tricolor, still l'armée française."
He lifted his hat, and looked steadily up at the sky, where the first stars were shouldering their way into view.
"Vive la France!" he added. And on his lips the phrase was like a prayer.
Through the arc de l'Etoile the fading sunset looked back, as upon something it was loath to leave. Then Little Tapin flung back his head. There was a strange, new light in his eyes, and his breath came quickly, between parted lips. Without a word he swung upon his heels, slipped his drum into place, and marched steadily away, beating the long roll. Once, when he had gone a hundred metres, he looked back. The figure of the Little Corporal was still standing beside the basin, but now it was very thin and faint, like the dust clouds on the Champs Elysées. But, as the little drummer turned, it raised one hand to its forehead in salute.
Little Tapin stood motionless for an instant, and then he smiled, and, through the deepening twilight—
"Vive l'armée!" he shouted, shrilly. "Vive la France!"
The Riverside Press