Then he smiled at his own folly, in dreaming idly thus of things that might have been.
“I will see her no more,” he said to himself. “If I do not take care, I shall end by thinking myself a martyr—the last refuge and consolation of emasculate vanity, of impotent egotism!”
For though his whole existence was a sacrifice, it never occurred to him that there was anything whatever great in its acceptation, or unjust in its endurance. He thought too little of his life's value, or of its deserts, even to consider by any chance that it had been harshly dealt with, or unmeritedly visited.
At that instant Petit Picpon's keen, pale, Parisian face peered through the door; his great, black eyes, that at times had so pathetic a melancholy, and at others such a monkeyish mirth and malice, were sparkling excitedly and gleefully.
“Mon Caporal!”
“You, Picpon! What is it?”
“Mon, Caporal, there is great news. There is fighting broken out yonder.”
“Ah! Are you sure?”
“Sure, mon Caporal. The Arbicos want a skirmish to the music of musketry. We are not to know just yet; we are to have the order de route to-morrow. I overheard our officers say so. They think we shall have brisk work. And for that they will not punish the vieille lame.”
“Punish! Is there fresh disobedience? In my squadron; in my absence?”