“Order our carriage.”
Our carriage. The vivandiere’s carriage.
The marquise marched up in great state to her niece. But at that moment there was a tremendous to-do on the drums, and the next moment a score or so of stout soldiers, Tony among them, came forward. By this time they were quite friendly with Tony, and had somehow cause to perceive what an admirable arrangement his marrying their daughter, the vivandiere, would be.
“Ah, there you are, Marie.”
“Pray, who is this young man?”
“Pardon, lady—Marie’s husband. Her fathers have said so.
“Fall back, private—fall back. There’s a general of division has stopped the match.”
“What?”
“Yes, comrade—Marie leaves us. The letter has done its work. This is Marie’s aunt.”
Perhaps many of the brave eleventh would have disputed this position with the butt end of a musket or so, but respect for their daughter stopped such a frightful proceeding; yet with one mighty voice they cried out,