Then the captain stood erect, not knowing what to reply. It seemed that the Marshal and he had been simple soldiers together in the time of the republic. The captain at last answered:
"Yes, Marshal; it is Sebastian Florentin."
"Ma foi, Florentin," said the Marshal, extending his arm toward Russia, "I am glad to see you again. I thought we had left you there."
All our company felt honored, and Zébédé said:
"That is what I call a man. I would spill my blood for him."
I could not see why Zébédé should wish to spill his blood because the Marshal had spoken a few words to an old comrade.
At Schweinheim, our beef and mutton and bread were very good, as was also our wine. But many of our men pretended to find fault with everything, thinking thus to pass for people of consequence. They were mistaken; for more than once I heard the citizens say in German:
"Those fellows, in their own country, were only beggars. If they returned to France, they would find only potatoes to live upon."
And the bourgeois were quite right; and I always found that people so difficult to please abroad were but poor wretches at home. For my part, I was well content to meet such good fare. Two conscripts were billeted with me at the house of the village postmaster, when, on the evening of the fourth day, as we were finishing our supper, an old man in a black great-coat came in. His hair was white, and his mien and appearance neat and respectable. He saluted us, and then said to the master of the house, in German:
"These are recruits?"