directions, like a vast, shallow amphitheatre, spread away in a long
series of low terraces to where, in the dim distance, the peaks of a
range of purple hills nicked and notched a sky of palest turquoise. From
where they stood, upon a slight elevation, the details of even the
farthest slopes seemed singularly clean-cut and distinct,--the groups of
grey willows; the poplars, standing stiffly in twos and threes; the
short silver reaches of a little river, lying in the hollows where the
land occasionally dipped; at long intervals, a whitewashed cottage,
gleaming like a sail against this sea of green; even, on the most
distant swell of all, a herd of ruddy cattle, moving slowly up toward
the crest,--each and all of these, although in merest miniature, as
clear and vivid in form and color as if they had been the careful
creations of a Claude Lorrain.
Directly before the knoll upon which they were stationed, a wide road,
dazzling white in the sunlight, swept in a superb full curve from left
to right, and on its further side the ground was covered with
close-cropped turf, and completely empty for a distance of two hundred
metres. But beyond! Beyond, every hectare of the great semicircle was
occupied by dense masses of cavalry, infantry, and artillery, regiment
upon regiment, division upon division, corps upon corps, an innumerable
multitude, motionless, as if carved out of many-colored marbles!
In some curious, unaccountable fashion, Little Tapin seemed to know all
these by name. There, to the left, were the chasseurs à pied, their huge
bearskins flecked with red and green pompons, and their white
cross-belts slashed like capital X's against the blue of their tunics;
there, beside them, the foot artillery, a long row of metal collar
plates, like dots of gold, and gold trappings against dark blue; to the
right, the Garde Royale Hollandaise, in brilliant crimson and white; in
the centre, the infantry of the Guard, with tall, straight pompons, red
above white, and square black shakos, trimmed with scarlet cord.
Close at hand, surrounding Little Tapin and his companion, were the most
brilliant figures of the scene, and these, too, he seemed to know by
name. None was missing. Prince Murat, in a cream-white uniform blazing
with gold embroidery, and with a scarlet ribbon across his breast; a
group of marshals, Ney, Oudinot, Duroc, Macdonald, Augereau, and Soult,
with their yellow sashes, and cocked hats laced with gold; a score of
generals, Larouche, Durosnel, Marmont, Letort, Henrion, Chasteller, and
the rest, with white instead of gold upon their hats,--clean-shaven,
severe of brow and lip-line, they stood without movement, their
gauntleted hands upon their sword-hilts, gazing straight before them.
Little Tapin drew a deep breath.
Suddenly from somewhere came a short, sharp bugle note, and instantly
the air was full of the sound of hoofs, and the ring of scabbards and
stirrup-irons, and the wide white road before them alive with flying
cavalry. Squadron after squadron, they thundered by: mounted chasseurs,
with pendants of orange-colored cloth fluttering from their shakos, and
plaits of powdered hair bobbing at their cheeks; Polish light horse,
with metal sunbursts gleaming on their square-topped helmets, and
crimson and white pennons snapping in the wind at the points of their
lances; Old Guard cavalry, with curving helmets like Roman legionaries;
Mamelukes, with full red trousers, white and scarlet turbans, strange
standards of horsehair surmounted by the imperial eagle, brazen stirrups
singularly fashioned, and horse trappings of silver with flying crimson
tassels; Horse Chasseurs of the Guard, in hussar tunics and yellow
breeches, their sabretaches swinging as they rode; and Red Lancers, in
gay uniforms of green and scarlet. Like a whirlwind they went
past,--each squadron, in turn, wheeling to the left, and coming to a
halt in the open space beyond the road, until the last lancer swept by.
A thick cloud of white dust, stirred into being by the flying horses,
now hung between the army and the knoll, and through this one saw dimly
the mounted band of the 20th Chasseurs, on gray stallions, occupying the
centre of the line, and heard, what before had been drowned by the
thunder of hoofs, the strains of "Partant pour la Syrie."
Slowly, slowly, the dust cloud thinned and lifted, so slowly that it
seemed as if it would never wholly clear. But, on a sudden, a sharp puff
of wind sent it whirling off in arabesques to the left, and the whole
plain lay revealed.
"Bon Dieu!" said Little Tapin.
The first rank of cavalry was stationed within a metre of the further
border of the road, the line sweeping off to the left and right until
details became indistinguishable. And beyond, reaching away in a solid
mass, the vast host dwindled and dwindled, back to where the ascending
slopes were broken by the distant willows and the reaches of the silver
stream. With snowy white of breeches and plastrons, with lustre of
scarlet velvet and gold lace, with sparkle of helmet and cuirass, and
dull black of bearskin and smoothly groomed flanks, the army blazed and
glowed in the golden sunlight like a mosaic of a hundred thousand
jewels. Silent, expectant, the legions flashed crimson, emerald, and
sapphire, rolling away in broad swells of light and color, motionless
save for a long, slow heave, as of the ocean, lying, vividly iridescent,
under the last rays of the setting sun. Then, without warning, as if the
touch of a magician's wand had roused the multitude to life, a myriad
sabres swept twinkling from their scabbards, and, by tens of thousands,
the guns of the infantry snapped with a sharp click to a present arms.
The bugles sounded all along the line, the tricolors dipped until their
golden fringes almost swept the ground, the troopers stood upright in
their stirrups, their heads thrown back, their bronzed faces turned
toward the knoll, their eyes blazing. And from the farthest slopes
inward, like thunder that growls afar, and, coming nearer, swells into
unbearable volume, a hoarse cry ran down the massed battalions and broke
in a stupendous roar upon the shuddering air,--
"Vive l'empereur!"
* * * * *
Little Tapin rubbed his eyes.
"I am ill," he murmured. "I have been faint. I seemed to see"--
"Thou hast seen," said the voice of his companion, very softly, very
solemnly,--"thou hast seen simply what it is to be a soldier of France!"
His hand rested an instant on the drummer's shoulder, with the ghost of
a caress.
"My little one," he added, tenderly, "forget not this. It matters
nothing whether one is Emperor of the French or the smallest drummer of
the corps, whom men call 'Little Tapin.' I, too, was called 'little' in
the time--'The Little Corporal' they called me, from Moscow to the
Loire. But it is all the same. Chief of the army, drummer of the corps,
on the field of battle, in the gardens of the Tuileries, routing the
Prussians, or drumming out the voyous,--it is all the same, my little
one, it is all the same. All that is necessary is to understand--to
understand that it is all and always for la belle France. Empire or
republic, in peace or war--what difference? It is still France, still
the tricolor, still l'armée française."
He lifted his hat, and looked steadily up at the sky, where the first
stars were shouldering their way into view.
"Vive la France!" he added. And on his lips the phrase was like a
prayer.
Through the arc de l'Etoile the fading sunset looked back, as upon
something it was loath to leave. Then Little Tapin flung back his head.
There was a strange, new light in his eyes, and his breath came quickly,
between parted lips. Without a word he swung upon his heels, slipped his
drum into place, and marched steadily away, beating the long roll. Once,
when he had gone a hundred metres, he looked back. The figure of the
Little Corporal was still standing beside the basin, but now it was very
thin and faint, like the dust clouds on the Champs Elysées. But, as the
little drummer turned, it raised one hand to its forehead in salute.
Little Tapin stood motionless for an instant, and then he smiled, and,
through the deepening twilight--
"Vive l'armée!" he shouted, shrilly. "Vive la France!"
The Riverside Press
_Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co._
_Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A._
End of Project Gutenberg's Zut and Other Parisians, by Guy Wetmore Carryl