Ninety-Three. Victor Hugo
stroked the little head of the nursing baby with her large hand.
"How old is this midget?" she asked.
The mother did not understand. The vivandière repeated, – "I ask you how old it is?"
"Oh, eighteen months," said the mother.
"That's quite old," said the vivandière; "it ought not to nurse any longer, you must wean it. We will give him soup."
The mother began to feel more at ease. The two little ones, who had awakened, were rather interested than frightened; they admired the plumes of the soldiers.
"Ah, they are very hungry!" said the mother.
And she added, —
"I have no more milk."
"We will give them food," cried the sergeant, "and you also. But there is something more to be settled. What are your political opinions?"
The woman looked at him and made no reply.
"Do you understand my question?"
She stammered, —
"I was put into a convent when I was quite young, but I married; I am not a nun. The Sisters taught me to speak French. The village was set on fire. We escaped in such haste that I had no time to put my shoes on."
"I ask you what are your political opinions?"
"I don't know anything about that."
The sergeant continued, —
"There are female spies. That kind of person we shoot. Come, speak. You are not a gypsy, are you? What is your native land?"
She still looked at him as though unable to comprehend.
The sergeant repeated, —
"What is your native land?"
"I do not know," she said.
"How is that? You do not know your country?"
"Ah! Do you mean my country? I know that."
"Well, what is your country?"
The woman replied, —
"It is the farm of Siscoignard, in the parish of Azé."
It was the sergeant's turn to be surprised. He paused for a moment, lost in thought; then he went on, —
"What was it you said?"
"Siscoignard."
"You cannot call that your native land."
"That is my country."
Then after a minute's consideration she added, —
"I understand you, sir. You are from France, but I am from Brittany."
"Well?"
"It is not the same country."
"But it is the same native land," exclaimed the sergeant.
The woman only replied, —
"I am from Siscoignard."
"Let it be. Siscoignard, then," said the sergeant. "Your family belong there, I suppose?"
"Yes!"
"What is their business?"
"They are all dead. I have no one left."
The sergeant, who was quite loquacious, continued to question her.
"Devil take it, every one has relations, or one has had them! Who are you? Speak!"
The woman listened bewildered; this "or one has had them" sounded more like the cry of a wild beast than the speech of a human being.
The vivandière felt obliged to interfere. She began to caress the nursing child, and patted the other two on the cheeks.
"What is the baby's name? It's a little girl, isn't it?"
The mother replied, "Georgette."
"And the oldest one? For he is a man, the rogue!"
"René-Jean."
"And the younger one? For he is a man too, and a chubby one into the bargain."
"Gros-Alain," replied the mother.
"They are pretty children," said the vivandière. "They look already as if they were somebody."
Meanwhile the sergeant persisted.
"Come! Speak, madam! Have you a house?"
"I had one once."
"Where was it?"
"At Azé."
"Why are you not at home?"
"Because my house was burned."
"Who burned it?"
"I do not know. There was a battle."
"Were do you come from?"
"From over there."
"Where are you going?"
"I do not know."
"Come, to the point! Who are you?"
"I do not know."
"Don't know who you are?"
"We are people running away."
"To what party do you belong?"
"I do not know."
"To the Blues, or the Whites? Which side are you on?"
"I am with my children."
There was a pause. The vivandière spoke.
"For my part I never had any children. I have not had time."
The sergeant began again.
"But what about your parents? See here, madam, tell me the facts about your parents. Now, my name is Radoub. I am a sergeant. I live on the Rue Cherche-Midi. My father and my mother lived there. I can talk of my parents. Tell us about yours. Tell us who your parents were."
"Their name was Fléchard. That's all."
"Yes. The Fléchards are the Fléchards, just as the Radoubs are the Radoubs. But people have a trade. What was your parents' trade? What did they do, these Fléchards of yours?"1
"They were laborers. My father was feeble and could not work, on account of a beating which the lord, his lord, our lord, gave him: it was really a mercy, for my father had poached a rabbit, a crime of which the penalty is death; but the lord was merciful and said, 'You may give him only a hundred blows with a stick;' and my father was left a cripple."
"And then?"
"My grandfather was a Huguenot. The curé had him sent to the galleys. I was very young then."
"And then?"
"My husband's father was a salt smuggler. The king had him hung."
"And what did your husband do?"
"He used to fight in those times."
"For whom?"
"For the king."
"And after that?"
"Ah! For his lord."
"And then?"
"For the curé."
"By all the names of beasts!" cried the grenadier. The woman jumped in terror.
"You see, madam, we are Parisians," said the vivandière, affably.
The woman clasped her hands, exclaiming, —
"Oh, my God and Lord Jesus!"
"No superstitions here!" rejoined the sergeant.
The vivandière sat down beside the woman and drew the oldest child between her knees; he yielded readily. Children are quite as easily reassured as they are frightened, with no apparent reason. They seem to possess instinctive perceptions. "My poor worthy woman of this neighborhood, you have pretty little children, at all events. One can guess their age. The big one is four years, and his brother is three. Just see how greedily the little rascal sucks. The wretch! Stop
The sergeant makes a pun on the name Fléchard which is untranslatable. Flèche means arrow, and he asks whether the Fléchards made arrows. – TR.