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Updated: May 6, 2025
"Why?" queried the Englishman, drawing on his pipe. "Why?" I demanded of the chasseurs. "Why? Do you see that?" said one on a bicycle, wheeling around and pointing down the road behind us. "Do you see that? That's the Uhlans. The ones that got Ballandreau a half-hour ago, the ones that got my horse and the ones that will get us all if we stop here much longer." "The Uhlans!"
"What have you got there? Our comrade, Ballandreau?" "Yes." "Is he dead?" "No." "Badly wounded?" "Yes." "Parlez-vous anglais?" they fairly bawled, all three at once. "Yes." "Then, for God's sake, tell that blockhead sitting on the stone and whose horse has gone lame, to seize the bicycle of that peasant standing there, and follow us." I translated politely.
My officer friends very courteously drove me to the hospital where I learned that my poor wounded chasseur Ballandreau had passed away in the night, and towards five o'clock, when their task was completed, they offered me tea and proposed to drive me to Barbizon.
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