With Rouvigny we captured a few of his men, and an officer (a very handsome young man), who gave up his sword to me with the most perfect sang froid. Before I could address our chief prisoner, who never deigned or affected to recognize me, the brigadier came galloping up and on discovering the rank and importance of Rouvigny, desired me to conduct him under escort, to a ruined sugar-mill, which stood about a mile in our rear, and was beyond range of the cannon in the redoubt. As we moved off, the young officer began to sing gaily,—
Halte la! halte la!
La Garde Royale est la!
Surprised to hear the refrain of this old song in the mouth of one I deemed a republican officer, I turned to address him, and asked how, at such a time, he was so light of heart. On this, he told me that he was one of those whose sympathies were with the recently extinguished monarchy of France—that he was sick of serving among republican soldiers, who daily put his life in jeopardy—and that he rejoiced in being taken prisoner by the allies of Louis XVII.
"Your name, monsieur?" said I.
"Dutriel—sous-lieutenant of the 37th, late the regiment of M. le Maréchal de Turenne; and now a ragged battalion in the service of the republic—sacredie!"
"The name you have given sounds familiar to me."
"'Tis very probable, mon camerade, for my father was M. le Chevalier Naudau Dutriel, governor of Guadaloupe and La Grande Terre, for his most Christian majesty; but was unfortunately defeated and taken prisoner by the British under General Harrington in the old war, before we became republicans, atheists, philosophers, and the devil only knows what more."
"Such sentiments will place your head in peril at home."
"Bah!" said he; "I have no intention of going home. I am a soldier; my head can take care of itself; but it is my heart and purse that are usually in most danger; for the first is sure to fall a prey to any pretty wench, and the last is ever shared with a comrade while a shot remains in it."
There is among men who serve or have served in the army, a community of sentiment—a species of freemasonry peculiar to them alone. The French so happy at all times in their terms, style it cameraderie; thus the chevalier and I became as old friends in ten minutes.