Ninety-Three. Victor Hugo
"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 eating up your mother! Come madam, do not be frightened. You ought to join the battalion. You should do as I do. My name is Housarde. It's a nickname, but I had rather be called Housarde than Mamzelle Bicorneau, like my mother. I am the canteen woman, which is the same as saying, she who gives the men to drink when they are firing grape-shot and killing each other. The devil and all his train. Our feet are about the same size. I will give you a pair of my shoes. I was in Paris on the 10th of August. I gave Westerman a drink. Everything went with a rush in those days! I saw Louis XVI. guillotined—Louis Capet, as they call him. I tell you he didn't like it. You just listen now. To think that on the 13th of January he was roasting chestnuts and enjoying himself with his family! When he was made to lie down on what is called the see-saw, he wore neither coat nor shoes; only a shirt, a quilted waistcoat, gray cloth breeches, and gray silk stockings. I saw all that with my own eyes. The fiacre which he rode in was painted green. Now then, you come with us; they are kind lads in the battalion; you will be canteen number two; I will teach you the trade. Oh, it's very simple! You will have a can and a bell; you are right in the racket, amid the firing of the platoons and the cannons, in all that hubbub, calling out, 'Who wants a drink, my children?' It is no harder task than that. I offer a drink to all, you may take my word for it—to the Whites as well as to the Blues, although I am a Blue, and a true Blue at that. But I serve them all alike. Wounded men are thirsty. People die without difference of opinions. Dying men ought to shake hands. How foolish to fight! Come with us. If I am killed you will fill my place. You see I am not much to look at, but I am a kind woman, and a good fellow. Don't be afraid."
When the vivandière ceased speaking, the woman muttered to herself—
"Our neighbor's name was Marie-Jeanne, and it was our servant who was Marie-Claude."
Meanwhile Sergeant Radoub was reprimanding the grenadier.
"Silence! You frighten madam. A man should not swear before ladies."
"I say this is a downright butchery for an honest man to hear about," replied the grenadier; "and to see Chinese Iroquois, whose father-in-law was crippled by the lord, whose grandfather was sent to the galleys by the curé, and whose father was hung by the king, and who fight—zounds!—and who get entangled in revolts, and are crushed for the sake of the lord, the curé, and the king!"
"Silence in the ranks!" exclaimed the sergeant.
"One may be silent, sergeant," continued the grenadier; "but it is all the same provoking to see a pretty woman like that running the risk of getting her neck broken for the sake of a calotin."[2]
"Grenadier," said the sergeant, "we are not in the Pike Club. Save your eloquence!" And turning to the woman, "And your husband, madam? What does he do? What has become of him?"
"Nothing; since he was killed."
"Where was that?"
"In the hedge."
"When?"
"Three days ago."
"Who killed him?"
"I do not know."
"How is that? You don't know who killed your husband?"
"No."
"Was it a Blue, or a White?"
"It was a bullet."
"Was that three days ago?"
"Yes."
"In what direction?"
"Towards Ernée. My husband fell. That was all."
"And since your husband died, what have you been doing?"
"I have been taking my little ones along."
"Where are you taking them?"
"Straight along."
"Where do you sleep?"
"On the ground."
"What do you eat?"
"Nothing."
The sergeant made that military grimace which elevates the moustache to the nose. "Nothing?"
"Well, nothing but sloes, blackberries when I found any left over from last year, whortle-berries, and fern-shoots."
"Yes, you may well call it nothing."
The oldest child, who seemed to understand, said:
"I am hungry."
The sergeant pulled from his pocket a piece of ration bread, and handed it to the mother.
Taking the bread, she broke, it in two and gave it to the children, who bit into it greedily.
"She has not saved any for herself," growled