MOROK and DAGOBERT
Goliath had not been mistaken, for Dagobert was washing with that
imperturbable gravity with which he did everything else.
When we remember the habits of a soldier a-field, we need not be
astonished at this apparent eccentricity. Dagobert only thought of
sparing the scanty purse of the orphans, and of saving them all care and
trouble; so every evening when they came to a halt he devoted himself to
all sorts of feminine occupations. But he was not now serving his
apprenticeship in these matters; many times, during his campaigns, he had
industriously repaired the damage and disorder which a day of battle
always brings to the garments of the soldier; for it is not enough to
receive a sabre-cut--the soldier has also to mend his uniform; for the
stroke which grazes the skin makes likewise a corresponding fissure in
the cloth.
Therefore, in the evening or on the morrow of a hard-fought engagement,
you will see the best soldiers (always distinguished by their fine
military appearance) take from their cartridge-box or knapsack a
housewife, furnished with needles, thread, scissors, buttons, and other
such gear, and apply themselves to all kinds of mending and darning, with
a zeal that the most industrious workwoman might envy.
We could not find a better opportunity to explain the name of Dagobert,
given to Francis Baudoin (the guide of the orphans) at a time when he was
considered one of the handsomest and bravest horse-grenadiers of the
Imperial Guard.
They had been fighting hard all day, without any decisive advantage. In
the evening, the company to which our hero belonged was sent as outliers
to occupy the ruins of a deserted village. Videttes being posted, half
the troopers remained in saddle, whilst the others, having picketed their
horses, were able to take a little rest. Our hero had charged valiantly
that day without receiving any wound--for he counted as a mere memento
the deep scratch on his thigh, which a kaiserlitz had inflicted in
awkwardly attempting an upward thrust with the bayonet.
"You donkey! my new breeches!" the grenadier had exclaimed, when he saw
the wide yawning rent, which he instantly avenged by running the Austrian
through, with a thrust scientifically administered. For, if he showed a
stoical indifference on the subject of injury to his skin, it was not so
with regard to the ripping up of his best parade uniform.
He undertook, therefore, the same evening, at the bivouac, to repair this
accident. Selecting his best needle and thread from the stores of his
housewife, and arming his finger with a thimble, he began to play the
tailor by the light of the watch-fire, having first drawn off his
cavalry-boots, and also (if it must be confessed) the injured garment
itself, which he turned the wrong side out the better to conceal the
stitches.
This partial undress was certainly a breach of discipline: but the
captain, as he went his round, could not forbear laughing at the sight of
the veteran soldier, who, gravely seated, in a squatting position, with
his grenadier cap on, his regimental coat on his back, his boots by his
side, and his galligaskins in his lap, was sewing with all the coolness
of a tailor upon his own shop-board.
Suddenly, a musket-shot is heard, and the videttes fall back upon the
detachment, calling to arms. "To horse!" cries the captain, in a voice of
thunder.
In a moment, the troopers are in their saddles, the unfortunate clothes
mender having to lead the first rank; there is no time to turn the
unlucky garment, so he slips it on, as well as he can, wrong side out,
and leaps upon his horse, without even stopping to put on his boots.
A party of Cossacks, profiting by the cover of a neighboring wood, had
attempted to surprise the detachment: the fight was bloody, and our hero
foamed with rage, for he set much value on his equipments, and the day
had been fatal to him. Thinking of his torn clothes and lost boots, he
hacked away with more fury than ever; a bright moon illumined the scene
of action, and his comrades were able to appreciate the brilliant valor
of our grenadier, who killed two Cossacks, and took an officer prisoner,
with his own hand.
After this skirmish, in which the detachment had maintained its position,
the captain drew up his men to compliment them on their success, and
ordered the clothes-mender to advance from the ranks, that he might thank
him publicly for his gallant behavior. Our hero could have dispensed with
this ovation, but he was not the less obliged to obey.
Judge of the surprise of both captain and troopers, when they saw this
tall and stern-looking figure ride forward at a slow pace, with his naked
feet in the stirrups, and naked legs pressing the sides of his charger.
The captain drew near in astonishment; but recalling the occupation of
the soldier at the moment when the alarm was given, he understood the
whole mystery. "Ha, my old comrade!" he exclaimed, "thou art like King
Dagobert--wearing thy breeches inside out."
In spite of discipline, this joke of the captain's was received with
peals of ill-repressed laughter. But our friend, sitting upright in his
saddle, with his left thumb pressing the well adjusted reins, and his
sword-hilt carried close to his right thigh, made a half-wheel, and
returned to his place in the ranks without changing countenance, after he
had duly received the congratulations of his captain. From that day,
Francis Baudoin received and kept the nickname of Dagobert.
Now Dagobert was under the porch of the inn, occupied in washing, to the
great amazement of sundry beer-drinkers, who observed him with curious
eyes from the large common room in which they were assembled.
In truth, it was a curious spectacle. Dagobert had laid aside his gray
top-coat, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt; with a vigorous hand,
and good supply of soap, he was rubbing away at a wet handkerchief,
spread out on the board, the end of which rested in a tub full of water.
Upon his right arm, tattooed with warlike emblems in red and blue colors,
two scars, deep enough to admit the finger, were distinctly visible. No
wonder then, that, while smoking their pipes, and emptying their pots of
beer, the Germans should display some surprise at the singular occupation
of this tall, moustached, bald-headed old man, with the forbidding
countenance--for the features of Dagobert assumed a harsh and grim
expression, when he was no longer in presence of the two girls.
The sustained attention, of which he saw himself the object, began to put
him out of patience, for his employment appeared to him quite natural. At
this moment, the Prophet entered the porch, and, perceiving the soldier,
eyed him attentively for several seconds; then approaching, he said to
him in French, in a rather sly tone: "It would seem, comrade, that you
have not much confidence in the washerwomen of Mockern?"
Dagobert, without discontinuing his work, half turned his head with a
frown, looked askant at the Prophet, and made him no answer.
Astonished at this silence, Morok resumed: "If I do not deceive myself,
you are French, my fine fellow. The words on your arm prove it, and your
military air stamps you as an old soldier of the Empire. Therefore I
find, that, for a hero, you have taken rather late to wear petticoats."
Dagobert remained mute, but he gnawed his moustache, and plied the soap,
with which he was rubbing the linen, in a most hurried, not to say angry
style; for the face and words of the beast-tamer displeased him more than
he cared to show. Far from being discouraged, the Prophet continued: "I
am sure, my fine fellow, that you are neither deaf nor dumb; why, then,
will you not answer me?"
Losing all patience, Dagobert turned abruptly round, looked Morok full in
the face, and said to him in a rough voice: "I don't know you: I don't
wish to know you! Chain up your curb!" And he betook himself again to his
washing.
"But we may make acquaintance. We can drink a glass of Rhine-wine
together, and talk of our campaigns. I also have seen some service, I
assure you; and that, perhaps, will induce you to be more civil."
The veins on the bald forehead of Dagobert swelled perceptibly; he saw in
the look and accent of the man, who thus obstinately addressed him,
something designedly provoking; still he contained himself.
"I ask you, why should you not drink a glass of wine with me--we could
talk about France. I lived there a long time; it is a fine country; and
when I meet Frenchmen abroad, I feel sociable--particularly when they
know how to use the soap as well as you do. If I had a housewife I'd send
her to your school."
The sarcastic meaning was no longer disguised; impudence and bravado were
legible in the Prophet's looks. Thinking that, with such an adversary,
the dispute might become serious, Dagobert, who wished to avoid a quarrel
at any price, carried off his tub to the other end of the porch, hoping
thus to put an end to the scene which was a sore trial of his temper. A
flash of joy lighted up the tawny eyes of the brute-tamer. The white
circle, which surrounded the pupil seemed to dilate. He ran his crooked
fingers two or three times through his yellow beard, in token of
satisfaction; then he advanced slowly towards the soldier, accompanied by
several idlers from the common-room.
Notwithstanding his coolness, Dagobert, amazed and incensed at the
impudent pertinacity of the Prophet, was at first disposed to break the
washing-board on his head; but, remembering the orphans, he thought
better of it.
Folding his arms upon his breast, Morok said to him, in a dry and
insolent tone: "It is very certain you are not civil, my man of suds!"
Then, turning to the spectators, he continued in German: "I tell this
Frenchman, with his long moustache, that he is not civil. We shall see
what answer he'll make. Perhaps it will be necessary to give him a
lesson. Heaven preserve me from quarrels!" he added, with mock
compunction; "but the Lord has enlightened me--I am his creature, and I
ought to make his work respected."
The mystical effrontery of this peroration was quite to the taste of the
idlers; the fame of the Prophet had reached Mockern, and, as a
performance was expected on the morrow, this prelude much amused the
company. On hearing the insults of his adversary, Dagobert could not help
saying in the German language: "I know German. Speak in German--the rest
will understand you."
New spectators now arrived, and joined the first comers; the adventure
had become exciting, and a ring was formed around the two persons most
concerned.
The Prophet resumed in German: "I said that you were not civil, and I now
say you are grossly rude. What do you answer to that?"
"Nothing!" said Dagobert, coldly, as he proceeded to rinse out another
piece of linen.
"Nothing!" returned Morok; "that is very little. I will be less brief,
and tell you, that, when an honest man offers a glass of wine civilly to
a stranger, that stranger has no right to answer with insolence, and
deserves to be taught manners if he does so."
Great drops of sweat ran down Dagobert's forehead and cheeks; his large
imperial was incessantly agitated by nervous trembling--but he restrained
himself. Taking, by two of the corners, the handkerchief which he had
just dipped in the water, he shook it, wrung it, and began to hum to
himself the burden of the old camp ditty:
"Out of Tirlemont's flea-haunted den,
We ride forth next day of the sen,
With sabre in hand, ah!
Good-bye to Amanda," etc.
The silence to which Dagobert had condemned himself, almost choked him;
this song afforded him some relief.
Morok, turning towards the spectators, said to them, with an air of
hypocritical restraint: "We knew that the soldiers of Napoleon were
pagans, who stabled their horses in churches, and offended the Lord a
hundred times a day, and who, for their sins, were justly drowned in the
Beresino, like so many Pharaohs; but we did not know that the Lord, to
punish these miscreants, had deprived them of courage--their single gift.
Here is a man, who has insulted, in me, a creature favored by divine
grace, and who affects not to understand that I require an apology; or
else--"
"What?" said Dagobert, without looking at the Prophet.
"Or you must give me satisfaction!--I have already told you that I have
seen service. We shall easily find somewhere a couple of swords, and to
morrow morning, at peep of day, we can meet behind a wall, and show the
color of our blood--that is, if you have any in your veins!"
This challenge began to frighten the spectators, who were not prepared
for so tragical a conclusion.
"What, fight?--a very, fine idea!" said one. "To get yourself both locked
up in prison: the laws against duelling are strict."
"Particularly with relation to strangers or nondescripts," added another.
"If they were to find you with arms in your hands, the burgomaster would
shut you up in jail, and keep you there two or three months before
trial."
"Would you be so mean as to denounce us?" asked Morok.
"No, certainly not," cried several; "do as you like. We are only giving
you a friendly piece of advice, by which you may profit, if you think
fit."
"What care I for prison?" exclaimed the Prophet. "Only give me a couple
of swords, and you shall see to-morrow morning if I heed what the
burgomaster can do or say."
"What would you do with two swords?" asked Dagobert, quietly.
"When you have one in your grasp, and I one in mine, you'd see. The Lord
commands us to have a care of his honor!"
Dagobert shrugged his shoulders, made a bundle of his linen in his
handkerchief, dried his soap, and put it carefully into a little oil-silk
bag--then, whistling his favorite air of Tirlemont, moved to depart.
The Prophet frowned; he began to fear that his challenge would not be
accepted. He advanced a step or so to encounter Dagobert, placed himself
before him, as if to intercept his passage, and, folding his arms, and
scanning him from head to foot with bitter insolence, said to him: "So!
an old soldier of that arch-robber, Napoleon, is only fit for a
washerwoman, and refuses to fight!"
"Yes, he refuses to fight," answered Dagobert, in a firm voice, but
becoming fearfully pale. Never, perhaps, had the soldier given to his
orphan charge such a proof of tenderness and devotion. For a man of his
character to let himself be insulted with impunity, and refuse to
fight--the sacrifice was immense.
"So you are a coward--you are afraid of me--and you confess it?"
At these words Dagobert made, as it were, a pull upon himself--as if a
sudden thought had restrained him the moment he was about to rush on the
Prophet. Indeed, he had remembered the two maidens, and the fatal
hindrance which a duel, whatever might be the result, would occasion to
their journey. But the impulse of anger, though rapid, had been so
significant--the expression of the stern, pale face, bathed in sweat, was
so daunting, that the Prophet and the spectators drew back a step.
Profound silence reigned for some seconds, and then, by a sudden
reaction, Dagobert seemed to have gained the general interest. One of the
company said to those near him; "This man is clearly not a coward."
"Oh, no! certainly not."
"It sometimes requires more courage to refuse a challenge than to accept
one."
"After all the Prophet was wrong to pick a quarrel about nothing--and
with a stranger, too."
"Yes, for a stranger, if he fought and was taken up, would have a good
long imprisonment."
"And then, you see," added another, "he travels with two young girls. In
such a position, ought a man to fight about trifles? If he should be
killed or put in prison, what would become of them, poor children?"
Dagobert turned towards the person who had pronounced these last words.
He saw a stout fellow, with a frank and simple countenance; the soldier
offered him his hand, and said with emotion:
"Thank you, sir."
The German shook cordially the hand, which Dagobert had proffered, and,
holding it still in his own, he added: "Do one thing, sir--share a bowl
of punch with us. We will make that mischief-making Prophet acknowledge
that he has been too touchy, and he shall drink to your health."
Up to this moment the brute-tamer, enraged at the issue of this scene,
for he had hoped that the soldier would accept his challenge, looked on
with savage contempt at those who had thus sided against him. But now his
features gradually relaxed; and, believing it useful to his projects to
hide his disappointment, he walked up to the soldier, and said to him,
with a tolerably good grace: "Well, I give way to these gentlemen. I own
I was wrong. Your frigid air had wounded me, and I was not master of
myself. I repeat, that I was wrong," he added, with suppressed vexation;
"the Lord commands humility--and--I beg your pardon."
This proof of moderation and regret was highly appreciated and loudly
applauded by the spectators. "He asks your pardon; you cannot expect
more, my brave fellow?" said one of them, addressing Dagobert. "Come, let
us all drink together; we make you this offer frankly--accept it in the
same spirit."
"Yes, yes; accept it, we beg you, in the name of your pretty little
girls," said the stout man, hoping to decide Dagobert by this argument.
"Many thanks, gentlemen," replied he, touched by the hearty advances of
the Germans; "you are very worthy people. But, when one is treated, he
must offer drink in return."
"Well, we will accept it--that's understood. Each his turn, and all fair.
We will pay for the first bowl, you for the second."
"Poverty is no crime," answered Dagobert; "and I must tell you honestly
that I cannot afford to pay for drink. We have still a long journey to
go, and I must not incur any useless expenses."
The soldier spoke these words with such firm, but simple dignity, that
the Germans did not venture to renew their offer, feeling that a man of
Dagobert's character could not accept it without humiliation.
"Well, so much the worse," said the stout man. "I should have liked to
clink glasses with you. Good-night, my brave trooper!--Good-night--for it
grows late, and mine host of the Falcon will soon turn us out of doors."
"Good-night, gentlemen," replied Dagobert, as he directed his steps
towards the stable, to give his horse a second allowance of provender.
Morok approached him, and said in a voice even more humble than before:
"I have acknowledged my error, and asked your pardon. You have not
answered me; do you still bear malice?"
"If ever I meet you," said the veteran, in a suppressed and hollow tone,
"when my children have no longer need of me, I will just say two words to
you, and they will not be long ones."
Then he turned his back abruptly on the Prophet, who walked slowly out of
the yard.
The inn of the White Falcon formed a parallelogram. At one end rose the
principal dwelling; at the other was a range of buildings, which
contained sundry chambers, let at a low price to the poorer sort of
travellers; a vaulted passage opened a way through this latter into the
country; finally, on either side of the court-yard were sheds and
stables, with lofts and garrets erected over them.
Dagobert, entering one of these stables, took from off a chest the
portion of oats destined for his horse, and, pouring it into a winnowing
basket, shook it as he approached Jovial.
To his great astonishment, his old travelling companion did not respond
with a joyous neigh to the rustle of the oats rattling on the wicker
work. Alarmed, he called Jovial with a friendly voice; but the animal,
instead of turning towards his master a look of intelligence, and
impatiently striking the ground with his fore-feet, remained perfectly
motionless.
More and more surprised, the soldier went up to him. By the dubious light
of a stable-lantern, he saw the poor animal in an attitude which implied
terror--his legs half bent, his head stretched forward, his ears down,
his nostrils quivering; he had drawn tight his halter, as if he wished to
break it, in order to get away from the partition that supported his rack
and manger; abundant cold-sweat had speckled his hide with bluish stains,
and his coat altogether looked dull and bristling, instead of standing
out sleek and glossy from the dark background of the stable; lastly, from
time to time, his body shook with convulsive starts.
"Why, old Jovial!" said the soldier, as he put down the basket, in order
to soothe his horse with more freedom, "you are like thy
master--afraid!--Yes," he added with bitterness, as he thought of the
offence he had himself endured, "you are afraid--though no coward in
general."
Notwithstanding the caresses and the voice of his master, the horse
continued to give signs of terror; he pulled somewhat less violently at
his halter, and approaching his nostrils to the hand of Dagobert, sniffed
audibly, as if he doubted it were he.
"You don't know me!" cried Dagobert. "Something extraordinary must be
passing here."
The soldier looked around him with uneasiness. It was a large stable,
faintly lighted by the lantern suspended from the roof, which was covered
with innumerable cobwebs; at the further end, separated from Jovial by
some stalls with bars between, were the three strong, black, horses of
the brute-tamer--as tranquil as Jovial was frightened.
Dagobert, struck with this singular contrast, of which he was soon to
have the explanation, again caressed his horse; and the animal, gradually
reassured by his master's presence, licked his hands, rubbed his head
against him, uttered a low neigh, and gave him his usual tokens of
affection.
"Come, come, this is how I like to see my old Jovial!" said Dagobert, as
he took up the winnowing-basket, and poured its contents into the manger.
"Now eat with a good appetite, for we have a long day's march tomorrow;
and, above all, no more of these foolish fears about nothing! If thy
comrade, Spoil-sport, was here, he would keep you in heart; but he is
along with the children, and takes care of them in my absence. Come, eat!
Instead of staring at me in that way."
But the horse, having just touched the oats with his mouth, as if in
obedience to his master, returned to them no more, and began to nibble at
the sleeve of Dagobert's coat.
"Come, come, my poor Jovial! there is something the matter with you. You
have generally such a good appetite, and now you leave your corn. 'Tis
the first time this has happened since our departure," said the soldier,
who was now growing seriously uneasy, for the issue of his journey
greatly depended on the health and vigor of his horse.
Just then a frightful roaring, so near that it seemed to come from the
stable in which they were, gave so violent a shock to Jovial, that with
one effort he broke his halter, leaped over the bar that marked his
place, and rushing at the open door, escaped into the court-yard.
Dagobert had himself started at the suddenness of this wild and fearful
sound, which at once explained to him the cause of his horse's terror.
The adjoining stable was occupied by the itinerant menagerie of the
brute-tamer, and was only separated by the partition, which supported the
mangers. The three horses of the Prophet, accustomed to these howlings,
had remained perfectly quiet.
"Good!" said the soldier, recovering himself; "I understand it now.
Jovial has heard another such roar before, and he can scent the animals
of that insolent scoundrel. It is enough to frighten him," added he, as
he carefully collected the oats from the manger; "once in another stable,
and there must be others in this place, he will no longer leave his peck,
and we shall be able to start early to-morrow morning!"
The terrified horse, after running and galloping about the yard, returned
at the voice of the soldier, who easily caught him by the broken halter;
and a hostler, whom Dagobert asked if there was another vacant stable,
having pointed out one that was only intended for a single animal, Jovial
was comfortably installed there.
When delivered from his ferocious neighbors, the horse became tranquil as
before, and even amused himself much at the expense of Dagobert's top
coat, which, thanks to his tricks, might have afforded immediate
occupation for his master's needle, if the latter had not been fully
engaged in admiring the eagerness with which Jovial dispatched his
provender. Completely reassured on his account, the soldier shut the door
of the stable, and proceeded to get his supper as quickly as possible, in
order to rejoin the orphans, whom he reproached himself with having left
so long.