“I should think so! But who on earth are you?”
“I am brother to a captain’s wife.”
“And what’s the captain’s name?”
Our hero was in a hideous difficulty; he had never expected that question. Luckily for him, the sergeant and the escort began to gallop again.
“What French name shall I say?” he wondered. At last he bethought him of the name of the man who had owned the hotel in which he had lodged in Paris. He brought his horse up close beside the sergeant’s charger, and shouted at the top of his voice:
“Captain Meunier.”
The other, half deafened by the noise of the artillery, answered, “What! Captain Teulier? Well, he’s been killed!”
“Bravo!” said Fabrizio to himself. “Captain Teulier! I must look distressed.”
“Oh, my God!” he cried, and put on a pitiful face. They had left the sunken road, and were crossing a small meadow. Every one tore at full gallop, for the bullets were pelting down again. The marshal rode toward a cavalry division; the escort was surrounded, now, by dead and wounded men, but our hero was already less affected by the sight; he had something else to think about.
While the escort was halting he noticed a cantinière with her little cart; his affection for that excellent class of women overrode every other feeling, and he galloped off toward the vehicle. “Stop here, you——” shouted the sergeant.