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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. And here he had in hand a war of his own. He revived. The shadow of peace passed away from him like the shadow of death.
She is the wife of Major Keene, the famous Indian sabreur; but has been separated from him for several years. She never makes an allusion to his existence; it was by the merest chance that I heard this, and also that her husband is spending the winter at Dorade.
Nevertheless, neither the bravery nor the charm seemed to work very swiftly. Lieut. Feraud's engaging, careless truculence of a beau sabreur underwent a change. He began to make bitter allusions to "clever fellows who stick at nothing to get on." The army was full of them, he would say; you had only to look round. But all the time he had in view one person only, his adversary, D'Hubert.
Broussard stood in a graceful attitude, his hand on his sword, looking every inch the beau sabreur. Anita became so absorbed that her hand stopped knitting; it was as if Broussard himself had walked into the room. Presently she felt, rather than saw, a glance fixed upon her. Mrs. Lawrence was wide awake, lying back in her chair, her dark eyes bent on Anita, whose hands lay idle in her lap.
Mason, of Virginia, a dogged old donkey, and Iverson, of Georgia, another, were the kind of men whom Wigfall dominated. One of the least confident of those who looked on and afterward fell in line was the Vice President, John C. Breckenridge, of Kentucky. He was the Beau Sabreur among statesmen as Albert Sidney Johnston, among soldiers. Never man handsomer in person or more winning in manners.
All Max's adherents thought Philippe a "sabreur," an expression applied by soldiers to the commonest sort of courage in their superior officers, while denying that they possess the requisite qualities of a commander. "He is a very honorable man," said Goddet the surgeon, to Max.
Rivers and ramparts were alike helpless to stay that all-devouring tide. On October the 16th, 16,000 men surrendered at Erfurt to Murat: then, spurring eastward, le beau sabreur rushed on the wreck of Hohenlohe's force, and with the aid of Lannes' untiring corps compelled it to surrender at Prenzlau.
From that moment the battle was a massacre. The Turks, attacked on all sides, were panic-struck; and the sea was covered with the turbans of men who flung themselves headlong into the waves rather than await the fury of Le Beau Sabreur, or the steady rolling fire of the Sultan Kebir. Six thousand surrendered at discretion: twelve thousand perished on the field or in the sea.
The quartermaster was an easy-going, large-framed man who regarded most things as an occasion for drinking and joking. He willingly undertook to assist de Lotbinière to act for the de Léry party among the Guardsmen, and to take charge of any petitions which might need to be presented to a military court. He protested good-humouredly, however, that "he was a sabreur, not an advocate."
The beau sabreur swept through part of Ansbach in pursuit, came up with Ferdinand near Nuremberg, and defeated his squadrons, their chief, with about 1,700 horse and some 500 mounted artillerymen, finally reaching the shelter of the Bohemian Mountains. All the rest of Mack's great array had been engulfed. Thus closed the first scene of the War of the Third Coalition.
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