The order for departure descended upon us like a thunderbolt: instantly, driven by the apprehension that something or other might ultimately be forgotten, there ensued a precipitate scurrying here, there, and everywhere throughout the town. Only with difficulty did I find the time even to warn those who are dear to me. The last inspection on the barrack-square was over. Out of the canteen, where I had gone to snatch a mouthful of food, I rushed, crossed the yard in a stride, and here you behold me, as erect and stiff as a ramrod, before files of men in blue coats and red trousers.
I was just in time: the General himself had already reached the right of my section. I stood with sword at the salute, my right hand grasping its hilt, my left kneading the greasy paper containing my recent purchase—a penny-worth of bread and a nameless pork confection, which perspired.
The General halts before me; young, well set-up in his tunic, with a face refined and full of energy.
"Good luck to you, Lieutenant."
"Thanks, General."
"Here's my hand, Lieutenant."
Did I not know it? I felt the sandwich being reduced to pulp in my own hand.
"Don't you feel excited, Lieutenant?"
A touch of legerdemain and my sword has passed into my left hand. I grip firmly the hand extended to me and answer loudly, distinctly, fairly meeting his eyes:
"No, General."