[1] Redingote is a French corruption of the English word “riding coat”
and means generally a long, plain double-breasted street coat.
[2] Charenton Saint Maurice, the lunatic asylum near Paris, commonly
designated as Charenton.
[3] The name of a public square in Paris where executions formerly took
place.
HOW THE REDOUBT WAS TAKEN
BY PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
[Illustration]
_Prosper Mérimée, novelist, historian, dramatist, and
critic, was born in Paris in 1803. Rarely gifted and highly
educated, he held various offices in the civil service, was
an Academician, and in 1853 a Senator of the Empire. He was a
great traveler, and through his tact and engaging personality
was welcomed among all classes, observing wherever he went, and
gathering material for his stories, in which a great variety
of types are noticeable. His literary style--clear, simple,
artistic--is considered a model of restraint and conciseness.
“Carmen,” on which Bizet’s opera is founded, and the novel,
“Columba,” are probably the best known of his works. The latter
part of his life he devoted to introducing through his own
translation the great Russian authors, Poushkin, Gogol, and
Turgenev. The famous “Lettres à une Inconnue” were published
after his death at Cannes, in 1870, where they have lately
erected a monument to him._
[Illustration]
HOW THE REDOUBT WAS TAKEN
BY PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
Copyright, 1896, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
A friend of mine, a soldier, who died in Greece of fever some years
since, described to me one day his first engagement. His story so
impressed me that I wrote it down from memory. It was as follows:
I joined my regiment on September 4th. It was evening. I found the
colonel in the camp. He received me rather bruskly, but having read the
general’s introductory letter he changed his manner and addressed me
courteously.
By him I was presented to my captain, who had just come in from
reconnoitring. This captain, whose acquaintance I had scarcely time to
make, was a tall, dark man, of harsh, repelling aspect. He had been a
private soldier, and had won his cross and epaulettes upon the field of
battle. His voice, which was hoarse and feeble, contrasted strangely
with his gigantic stature. This voice of his he owed, as I was told, to
a bullet which had passed completely through his body at the battle of
Jena.
On learning that I had just come from college at Fontainebleau, he
remarked, with a wry face: “My lieutenant died last night.”
I understood what he implied, “It is for you to take his place, and you
are good for nothing.”
A sharp retort was on my tongue, but I restrained it.
The moon was rising behind the redoubt of Cheverino, which stood two
cannon-shots from our encampment. The moon was large and red, as is
common at her rising; but that night she seemed to me of extraordinary
size. For an instant the redoubt stood out coal-black against the
glittering disk. It resembled the cone of a volcano at the moment of
eruption.
An old soldier, at whose side I found myself, observed the color of the
moon.
“She is very red,” he said. “It is a sign that it will cost us dear to
win this wonderful redoubt.”
I was always superstitious, and this piece of augury, coming at that
moment, troubled me. I sought my couch, but could not sleep. I rose,
and walked about a while, watching the long line of fires upon the
heights beyond the village of Cheverino.
When the sharp night air had thoroughly refreshed my blood I went
back to the fire. I rolled my mantle round me, and I shut my eyes,
trusting not to open them till daybreak. But sleep refused to visit me.
Insensibly my thoughts grew doleful. I told myself that I had not a
friend among the hundred thousand men who filled that plain. If I were
wounded, I should be placed in hospital, in the hands of ignorant and
careless surgeons. I called to mind what I had heard of operations.
My heart beat violently, and I mechanically arranged, as a kind of
rude cuirass, my handkerchief and pocketbook upon my breast. Then,
overpowered with weariness, my eyes closed drowsily, only to open the
next instant with a start at some new thought of horror.
Fatigue, however, at last gained the day. When the drums beat at
daybreak I was fast asleep. We were drawn up in ranks. The roll was
called, then we stacked our arms, and everything announced that we
should pass another uneventful day.
But about three o’clock an aide-de-camp arrived with orders. We were
commanded to take arms.
Our sharpshooters marched into the plain. We followed slowly, and in
twenty minutes we saw the outposts of the Russians falling back and
entering the redoubt. We had a battery of artillery on our right,
another on our left, but both some distance in advance of us. They
opened a sharp fire upon the enemy, who returned it briskly, and the
redoubt of Cheverino was soon concealed by volumes of thick smoke.
Our regiment was almost covered from the Russians’ fire by a piece of
rising ground. Their bullets (which besides were rarely aimed at us,
for they preferred to fire upon our cannoneers) whistled over us, or at
worst knocked up a shower of earth and stones.
Just as the order to advance was given, the captain looked at me
intently. I stroked my sprouting mustache with an air of unconcern;
in truth, I was not frightened, and only dreaded lest I might be
thought so. These passing bullets aided my heroic coolness, while
my self-respect assured me that the danger was a real one, since
I was veritably under fire. I was delighted at my self-possession,
and already looked forward to the pleasure of describing in Parisian
drawing-rooms the capture of the redoubt of Cheverino.
The colonel passed before our company. “Well,” he said to me, “you are
going to see warm work in your first action.”
I gave a martial smile, and brushed my cuff, on which a bullet, which
had struck the earth at thirty paces distant, had cast a little dust.
It appeared that the Russians had discovered that their bullets did no
harm, for they replaced them by a fire of shells, which began to reach
us in the hollows where we lay. One of these, in its explosion, knocked
off my shako and killed a man beside me.
“I congratulate you,” said the captain, as I picked up my shako. “You
are safe now for the day.”
I knew the military superstition which believes that the axiom “_non
bis in idem_” is as applicable to the battlefield as to the courts
of justice. I replaced my shako with a swagger.
“That’s a rude way to make one raise one’s hat,” I said, as lightly
as I could. And this wretched piece of wit was, in the circumstances,
received as excellent.
“I compliment you,” said the captain. “You will command a company
to-night; for I shall not survive the day. Every time I have been
wounded the officer below me has been touched by some spent ball; and,”
he added, in a lower tone, “all the names began with P.”
I laughed skeptically; most people would have done the same; but most
would also have been struck, as I was, by these prophetic words. But,
conscript though I was, I felt that I could trust my thoughts to no
one, and that it was my duty to seem always calm and bold.
At the end of half an hour the Russian fire had sensibly diminished. We
left our cover to advance on the redoubt.
Our regiment was composed of three battalions. The second had to take
the enemy in flank; the two others formed a storming party. I was in
the third.
On issuing from behind the cover, we were received by several volleys,
which did but little harm. The whistling of the balls amazed me. “But
after all,” I thought, “a battle is less terrible than I expected.”
We advanced at a smart run, our musketeers in front.
All at once the Russians uttered three hurrahs--three distinct
hurrahs--and then stood silent, without firing.
“I don’t like that silence,” said the captain. “It bodes no good.”
I began to think our people were too eager. I could not help comparing,
mentally, their shouts and clamor with the striking silence of the
enemy.
We quickly reached the foot of the redoubt. The palisades were broken
and the earthworks shattered by our balls. With a roar of “Vive
l’Empereur,” our soldiers rushed across the ruins.
I raised my eyes. Never shall I forget the sight which met my view.
The smoke had mostly lifted, and remained suspended, like a canopy,
at twenty feet above the redoubt. Through a bluish mist could be
perceived, behind the shattered parapet, the Russian Grenadiers, with
rifles lifted, as motionless as statues. I can see them still--the left
eye of every soldier glaring at us, the right hidden by his lifted gun.
In an embrasure at a few feet distant, a man with a fuse stood by a
cannon.