“I wish to see him,” said M. le Marquis. “Go bring him to me.”
Jacques willingly obeyed. It was some time before he found his pupil—for such he could be called. He was in the midst of a crowd that surrounded him and loaded him with congratulations and compliments on his bravery. His conduct had been noted, and the commanding officer was then asking him his name and residence, that he might inscribe them in his report. Jeannet, who shrank from observation, looked like a criminal before his judges. Michou, seeing him so timid and confused, told him he was a fool, and came very near being angry himself.
“Just see how frightened you are now!” said he to him, in such a cross tone the officer smiled. “Excuse him, colonel, he always looks sheepish when before people he don't know. His name is Jean-Louis Ragaud, and he comes from the commune of Val-Saint-sur-Range, near Issoudun.”
“All right,” said the officer; “that is enough, my brave fellow. Jean Ragaud, Gen. Cavaignac will hear of you, ... and, if it depends on me, you will hear from him.”
Jeannet bowed as awkwardly as possible, which made the game-keeper grumble again.
“Again I beg of you,” said he, “to keep that bewildered stare. You look like the head of S. John the Baptist, cut off and laid on a dish, that is painted in our church. I suppose it is because you are so unhappy! The general will no doubt send after you to have you hanged—unless he sends you the Cross of the Legion of Honor....”
“The cross!” cried Jeannet, seizing the game-keeper by the arm.
“Yes indeed, idiot! I know how soldiers talk; would the colonel have said as much unless he was sure of the fact?”
“The cross!” repeated Jean-Louis, with tears in his eyes. “O Jacques Michou! if it were true!”
“That would make you bold, eh? And it would be a fine present to take back to Muiceron.”