Just then Sublieutenant Verney walked into the riding-hall. He was the same Paul Verney, only he was twenty-two years old, and was known and loved by every man and by every horse in the regiment. This triumph was something to be laid at the feet of Lucie Bernard, whom he had loved ever since that August afternoon in the park at Bienville, when she had taken his book away from him and his heart went with the book. Sublieutenant Verney was always present at the riding-drill, whether it was his turn or not, and he dreamed dreams in which he saw himself as another Murat or Kellerman, leading vast masses of heavy cavalry to overwhelm infantry—for he held to the French idea that men on horses can ride over men on foot. His dog, Powder, a smart little fox terrier, was at his heels.
Now Paul Verney was an especial favorite with Sergeant Duval, who had known him as boy and man, who had seen sublieutenants come and go, and knew the breed well. He looked gloomily at Paul as he came up and ran his eye casually over the recruits.
“Pretty bad lot, eh, Sergeant?” said Paul.
“Dreadful, sir. It would have broken your heart to have seen them in the riding-school yesterday. Not one of them has any more notion of riding than a bale of hay has.”
“Ah! Well, you can lick them into shape, if anybody can,” was Paul’s reply to this pessimistic remark.
The specially-trained horse on which greenhorns learned was then brought in. He was an intelligent old charger, and when he stood stock-still, with a trooper holding up his forefoot, his small, bright eye traveled over the recruits. Then, suddenly dropping his head, he gave forth a long, low whinny of disgust, which was almost human in its significance.
“Old Caporal even laughs at them!” cried the sergeant. “Now, come here, you bandy-legged son of a sailor, and get on that horse’s back, and do it with a single spring.”
This was addressed to Toni, who lurched forward so clumsily that it was seen there was little hope for him.
The waiting greenhorns watched with a sympathetic grin Toni’s timid and awkward preparations to spring on Caporal’s back. He moved back at least ten yards, and, lunging forward with the energy of despair, succeeded in landing on the horse’s crupper, from which he slid to the ground, and lay groaning as he rubbed his shins. A shout of laughter, in which every man joined except the sergeant, followed this. Even Powder gave two short, sharp yaps of amusement. The sergeant, though, was in no laughing mood.
“Now, then,” he cried, “are you going to keep us here all day? Get up and try again!—and this time, be sure and land between the horse’s ears.”