"
Every man moved forward. General Feraud, deeply touched by this
demonstration, called with visible emotion upon the one-eyed veteran
cuirassier and the officer of the _Chasseurs a cheval_, who had left the
tip of his nose in Russia. He excused his choice to the others.
"A cavalry affair this--you know."
He was answered with a varied chorus of "_Parfaitement mon General...
C'est juste... Parbleu c'est connu..._" Everybody was satisfied. The
three left the cafe together, followed by cries of "_Bonne chance_."
Outside they linked arms, the general in the middle. The three rusty
cocked hats worn _en bataille_, with a sinister forward slant, barred
the narrow street nearly right across. The overheated little town of
gray stones and red tiles was drowsing away its provincial afternoon
under a blue sky. Far off the loud blows of some coopers hooping a cask,
reverberated regularly between the houses. The general dragged his left
foot a little in the shade of the walls.
"That damned winter of 1813 got into my bones for good. Never mind. We
must take pistols, that's all. A little lumbago. We must have pistols.
He's sure game for my bag. My eyes are as keen as ever. Always were. You
should have seen me picking off the dodging Cossacks with a beastly old
infantry musket. I have a natural gift for firearms."
In this strain General Feraud ran on, holding up his head with owlish
eyes and rapacious beak. A mere fighter all his life, a cavalry man, a
_sabreur_, he conceived war with the utmost simplicity as in the main a
massed lot of personal contests, a sort of gregarious duelling.
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