Part 18 (2/2)

Jean d'Ulloa; he fought at Sebastopol, and was conqueror.”

”Come, come, Father Nonesuch!” broke in ”the youngster,” and others of that group of veterans, ”you are surely wandering. It was not the Emperor Napoleon who fought at those places. That was long after he was dead. It was the son of Louis Philippe, the Duke of Nemours, who fought at Constantine; it was the Prince of Joinville who led at Ulloa; and, at Sebastopol, the”--

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”_Pif! paf! pouf! That is the way I read”--Napoleon at the Battle of Jena. (From the Painting by Horace Vernet_.)]

”Bah!” broke in the old veteran. ”You are all owls, you! What if they did? I will not deny either the Duke of Nemours nor the Prince of Joinville, nor Louis Philippe himself. But what then? You need not deny, you youngster, nor you, the other shouters, that when the cannons boom, when the battles rage, when, above all, one is conqueror for France, there is something of my emperor in that. Could they have conquered except for him? Ten thousand bullets! I say. He is everywhere.”

”But, see here, Father Nonesuch,” protested the Corsican, ”you must not deny to me the emperor's birth; for I know, I know all about it. Was not my mother, Saveria, Madame Let.i.tia's servant? Was she not, too, nurse to the little Napoleon? She was, my faith! And she has told me a hundred times all about him. I know of what I speak. Our emperor, Napoleon Bonaparte, was born on the fifteenth of August, 1769, and when he was a baby, the cradle not being at hand, he was laid upon a rug in Madame Let.i.tia's room. And on that rug was a fine representation of Mars, the G.o.d of war. And because his bed on that rug was on the very spot which represented Mars, that, old Nonesuch, is why our emperor was ever valiant in war. What say you to that?”

”Oh, very well, very well,” said old Nonesuch, as if he made a great concession; ”if you say so from your own knowledge, if you insist that he was born, let it go so. I admit that he was born. But as to his being dead, eh? Will you insist on that too?”

”And why not?” replied the Corsican, still harping on his personal knowledge of things in Ajaccio. ”I knew the Bonapartes well, I tell you.

There was the father, Papa Charles, a fine, n.o.ble-looking man; and their uncle, the canon--ah! he was a good man. He was short and fat and bald, with little eyes, but with a look like an eagle. And the children!

how often I have seen them, though they were older than I--Joseph and Lucien, and little Louis, and Eliza and Pauline and Caroline. Yes; I saw them often. And Napoleon too. They say he never played much. But you knew him at Brienne school, old Nonesuch.”

”Yes,” nodded the old veteran; ”for there my father was the porter.”

”He was ever grave and stern, was Napoleon;--not wicked, though”--”No, no; never wicked,” broke in old Nonesuch. ”I remember his snow-ball fight.”

”A fight with snow-b.a.l.l.s!” exclaimed the youngster. ”Yes; with snow-b.a.l.l.s, youngster,” replied old None-such.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'The Emperor was--the Emperor' cried old Nonesuch”]

”Did you never hear of it? But you are too young. Only the Corsican and I can remember that;” and the old man nodded to the Corsican with the superiority of old age over these ”babies,” as he called the younger veterans. ”Let me see,” said Nonesuch, crossing his wooden leg over his leg of flesh; ”I was the porter's boy at Brienne school. I was there to blacken my shoes--not mine, you understand, but those of the scholars.

There was much snow that winter. The scholars could not play in the courts nor out-of-doors. They were forced to walk in the halls. That wearied them, but it rejoiced me. Why? Because I had but few shoes to blacken. They could not get them dirty while they remained indoors. But, look you! one day at recess I saw the scholars all out-of-doors,--all out in the snow. 'Alas! alas! my poor shoes,' said I. It made me sad. I hid behind the greenhouse doors, to see the meaning of this disorder.

Then I heard a sudden shout. 'Brooms, brooms! shovels, shovels!' they cried. They rushed into the greenhouse: they took whatever they could find; and one boy, who saw me standing idle, pushed me toward the door, crying, 'Here, lazy-bones! take a shovel, take a broom! Get to work, and help us!'--'Help you do what?' said I. 'To make the fort and roll snow-b.a.l.l.s,' he replied. 'Not I; it is too cold,' I answered. Then the boys laughed at me. My faith! to-day I think they were right. Then they tried to push me out-of-doors, I resisted; I would not go. Suddenly appeared one whom I did not know. He said nothing. He simply looked at me. He signed to me to take a broom--to march into the garden--to set to work. And I obeyed. I dared not resist. I did whatever he told me; and, my faith! so, too, did all the boys. 'Is this one a teacher?' I asked one of the scholars. 'He does not look so; he is too small and pale and thin.'--'No,' replied the boy; 'it is Napoleon.'--'And who is Napoleon?' I asked; for at that time I was as ignorant as all of you here. 'Is he our patron? Is he the king? Is he the pope?'--'No; he is Napoleon,' the boy replied again, shrugging his shoulders. I did not ask more. The boy was right. Napoleon was neither boy nor man, patron, king, nor pope; he was Napoleon! You should have seen him while we were working. His hand was pointing continually,--here, there, everywhere,--indicating what he wished to have done; his clear voice was ever explaining or commanding. Then, when we had cut paths in the snow, and had built ramparts, dug trenches, raised fortifications, rolled snow-b.a.l.l.s--then the attack began. I had nothing more to do, I looked on. But my heart beat fast; I wished that I might fight also. But I was the porter's son, and did not dare to join in the scholars' play. Every day for a week, while the snow lasted, the war was fought at each recess. Snow-b.a.l.l.s flew through the air, striking heads, faces, b.r.e.a.s.t.s, backs. The shouting and the tumult gave me great pleasure; but, oh! the shoes I had to blacken! Then I said to myself, 'I wish to be a soldier.'

And I kept my word.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE LITTLE CORPORAL.

”But why,” asked the Corsican, as old Nonesuch concluded his story, and all the veterans applauded with cane and boot, ”why did you not say, 'I wish to be a general,' and keep your word. Others like you have been soldiers of the emperor--and generals, marshals, princes.”

”Yes, Corsican,” replied old Nonesuch sadly; ”what you say is true. But I will tell you what prevented my advancement. I did not know how to read as well as a lot of the schemers who were in my regiment. In fact,”

old Nonesuch confessed, ”I could not write; I could not read at all.”

”Why did you not learn, then, father?” asked one of the veterans, who, because he sat up late every night to read the daily paper, was called by his comrades ”the scholar.”

”I did try to learn, Mr. Scholar,” replied old Nonesuch, taking a pinch of snuff from the Corsican's box; ”but indeed it was not in the blood, don't you see? Not one of my family could read or write; and then I saw so much trouble over the pens and the books when I was blackening my boots at Brienne school, that then I had no wish to learn. 'It is all vexation,' I said. And when I became a soldier, what do you suppose prevented my learning?”

”Were your brains shot away, old Nonesuch?” queried the scholar sarcastically.

”My brains, say you!” the old man cried indignantly. ”And if they had been, Mr. Scholar, I would still have more than you. No; it was an adventure I had after Austerlitz. Ah, what a battle was that! I had the good luck there to have this leg that I have not now, carried away by a cannon-ball”--

”Good luck! says he,” broke in the youngster. ”And how good luck, Father Nonesuch?”

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