When I reached the roofless house in which we had held the consultation
the night before, I threw off my gown and I put on the busby and sabre
which I had left there.
Then, a Hussar once more, I hurried onward to the grove which was
our rendezvous. My brain was still reeling from the concussion of the
powder, and I was exhausted by the many emotions which had shaken me
during that terrible night. It is like a dream, all that walk in the
first dim grey light of dawn, with the smouldering camp-fires around
me and the buzz of the waking army. Bugles and drums in every direction
were mustering the infantry, for the explosion and the shouting had told
their own tale. I strode onward until, as I entered the little clump of
cork oaks behind the horse lines, I saw my twelve comrades waiting in
a group, their sabres at their sides. They looked at me curiously as I
approached. Perhaps with my powder-blackened face and my blood-stained
hands I seemed a different Gerard to the young captain whom they had
made game of the night before.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said I. “I regret exceedingly if I have kept
you waiting, but I have not been master of my own time.”
They said nothing, but they still scanned me with curious eyes. I can
see them now, standing in a line before me, tall men and short men,
stout men and thin men: Olivier, with his warlike moustache; the thin,
eager face of Pelletan; young Oudin, flushed by his first duel; Mortier,
with the sword-cut across his wrinkled brow.