He does not walk; he runs; he is truly the soldier of his age--an age of
steam. He comes from Vincennes to Paris in thirty-five minutes; it takes
a first class _fiacre_ just twice as long.
The light infantry has given abundant proofs of courage. It was in
Africa, in 1842, that it received the baptism of fire, a glorious
baptism.
From the very first the chasseurs inspired the Arabs with unconquerable
terror. It is true that everything combines to give them a frightful
appearance in battle; their somber costume, their strange evolutions,
the shrill sound of their trumpets, make them resemble, seen in the
midst of the smoke, a legion of unchained devils.
When the Arabs saw them advancing on the run they took flight.
The chasseurs have a terrible weapon. Their rifles, which are loaded
with oblong balls, pierce a board fifty millimeters in thickness at a
distance of more than a quarter of a mile; and as all the chasseurs are
excellent marksmen, they make frightful havoc in the enemy’s ranks.
It is amusing to see the profound astonishment of the Arabs wounded at
such a distance. They believe there is some witchcraft about it.
At Sebastopol, the corps of volunteer sharp-shooters was recruited from
the ranks of the chasseurs. Creeping along, hiding in the slightest
furrow of ground, they generally succeed in approaching within range
of the battery, and then woe to its defenders! The cannons were soon
reduced to silence.
It is impossible for any one who has not witnessed the maneuvers of
the light infantry to have any conception of the marvels resulting from
discipline and daily practice.
Their ordinary gait is a rapid walk, their accelerated pace is the speed
of a race-horse. At a blast from the trumpet they disperse in every
direction, disappearing, kneeling, lying flat on their bellies or
on their backs, loading their rifles, aiming and firing in every
conceivable posture. Another signal is heard; instantly they are in the
ranks, crowded close together, bayonets glittering, ready to charge.
And an impetuous charge by the chasseurs of Vincennes is irresistible.
Dense as the mass may be upon which they precipitate themselves, they
cut their way through it with their broad saber-bayonets, leaving a
bloody trail behind them.
“They are demons!” Prince Mentchikoff exclaimed at Sebastopol.
The chasseurs are very proud of their reputation for swiftness. Once
when an order of the day was read to them beginning thus:
“Soldiers: we are about to march upon the enemy.”--they cried: “Oh, no,
that does not suit us, we wish to run.”
When off duty the chasseur preserves his rapid pace, and his ferocious,
almost tigerish manner. His hat is always cocked defiantly on one side
of his head, and his belt is always inordinately tight.
Quick and supple in every movement, he adores dancing. It is his
_forte_, and in it he wins a success that the Parisian fireman alone can
dispute with him. Naturally, the belles adore this perfect dancer; but
they should not trust him--the chasseur is even more inconstant than
that heartless butterfly, the voltigeur.
In Paris he haunts the shades of Vincennes and Saint Maudé. Monday,
Thursday, and Sunday he can always be found at the public balls, near
the Barrière du Trône, happy if permission to be absent until midnight
enables him to remain until the close of the festivities. He invariably
finds a brother chasseur who is also absent on leave, and who shares
several bottles of sour wine with him.
*******
But it would be unjust not to say a word concerning the trumpeter of the
chasseurs.
How the chasseur, laden with his knapsack, rations, weapons, ammunition,
and accouterments can run without losing his breath completely, it is
difficult to comprehend.
But how does the trumpeter, as he runs with the others, find breath to
blow his trumpet?
That is something one can not comprehend.