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Updated: June 16, 2025
His corps would have gone after him to the devil, as Claude de Chanrellon had averred; but they would sometimes wax a little impatient that he would never grow communicative or thread many phrases together, even over the best wine which ever warmed the hearts of its drinkers or loosened all rein from their lips.
"Oh! We are a queer lot; a very queer lot. Sweepings of Europe," said Claude de Chanrellon, dashing some vermouth off his golden mustaches, where he lay full-length on three chairs outside the Cafe in the Place du Gouvernement, where the lamps were just lit, and shining through the burnished moonlight of an Algerian evening, and the many-colored, many-raced, picturesque, and polyglot population of the town were all fluttering out with the sunset, like so many gay-colored moths.
How did Rire-pour-tout die? I will tell you." He dipped his long mustaches into a beaker of still champagne. Claude, Viscomte de Chanrellon, though in the ranks, could afford those luxuries. "He died this way, did Rire-pour-tout! Dieu de Dieu! a very good way too. Send us all the like when our time comes!
"He made me bow this morning like a chamberlain; and his beard is like carded silk, and he has such woman's hands, mon Dieu! But he is a croc-mitaine, too." "Rather!" laughed Claude de Chanrellon, as magnificent a soldier himself as ever crossed swords. "I said he would eat fire the very minute he played that queer game of dice with me years ago.
"Faith!" laughed Chanrellon, regardless of the General's observation, "if we all published our memoirs, the world would have a droll book. Dumas and Terrail would be beat out of the field. The real recruiting sergeants that send us to the ranks would be soon found to be " "Women!" growled the General. "Cards," sighed the Colonel. "Absinthe," muttered another. "A comedy that was hissed."
"Dieu!" muttered Chanrellon, as he looked after him, and struck his hand on the marble-topped table till the glasses shook. "I would give a year's pay to know that fine fellow's history. He is a gentleman every inch of him." "And a good soldier, which is better," growled the General of Brigade, who had begun life in his time driving an ox-plow over the heavy tillage of Alsace.
"The spleen." "The dice." "The roulette." "The natural desire of humanity to kill or to get killed!" "Morbleu!" cried Chanrellon, as the voices closed, "all those mischiefs beat the drum, and send volunteers to the ranks, sure enough; but the General named the worst. Look at that little Cora; the Minister of War should give her the Cross.
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