Great therefore was the emotion amongst the anciens militaires frequenting a certain little café full of flies when one stuffy afternoon “that poor General Feraud” let out suddenly a volley of formidable curses.
He had been sitting quietly in his own privileged corner looking through the Paris gazettes with about as much interest as a condemned man on the eve of execution could be expected to show in the news of the day. A cluster of martial, bronzed faces, including one lacking an eye and another lacking the tip of a nose frost-bitten in Russia, surrounded him anxiously.
“What's the matter, general?”
General Feraud sat erect, holding the newspaper at arm's length in order to make out the small print better. He was reading very low to himself over again fragments of the intelligence which had caused what may be called his resurrection.
“We are informed... till now on sick leave... is to be called to the command of the 5th Cavalry Brigade in...”
He dropped the paper stonily, mumbled once more... “Called to the command”... and suddenly gave his forehead a mighty slap.
“I had almost forgotten him,” he cried in a conscience-stricken tone.
A deep-chested veteran shouted across the café:
“Some new villainy of the government, general?”
“The villainies of these scoundrels,” thundered General Feraud, “are innumerable. One more, one less!...” He lowered his tone. “But I will set good order to one of them at least.”