The marquise’s steward immediately assured her that the men were retreating, and the marquise was immensely glad to hear it. She would not, however, go back to that castle of hers, but chose to sit on a secluded rock, while the steward went to reconnoitre. Barely was she left to herself than Sergeant Sulpice was walking rapidly past her.
“By the lock of a musket, if they could fight as they can run, we should be sent back to France in a week. Aye, run—run—as though peace was not proclaimed. Hallo! here comes Marie—Marie of the 11th.”
“Oh’ é—é—é—Salute, Sulpice.”
“Here comes the heart of the regiment.”
“Well—I think I begin to do you credit.”
“Angel.”
“Pooh—nonsense. Soldier! Born in a camp—the roll of the drum my only lullaby—a drum my only toy—except you—you grizzly old father, you.”
“The regiment is lucky to have a Marie.”
“Marie is lucky to have a regiment, you mean. Why, each man was her carriage when she was a child—her rations were better than any one’s;—yes she ate and drank to the trun—trun—trun of the drum. And now—now I’m grown up—every man touches his shako to me.”
“They revere you.”