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Updated: May 6, 2025
If you want a good soldier, take that aristocrat of the Chasse-Marais that beau Victor. Pouf! All his officers were down; and how splendidly he led the troop! He was going to die with them rather than surrender. Napoleon" and Cigarette uncovered her curly head reverentially as at the name of a deity "Napoleon would have given him his brigade ere this. If you had seen him kill the chief!"
Hours, in the warm flush of an African dawn, when the arbiter of the duel was the sole judge allowed or comprehended by the tigers of the tricolor, and to aim a dead shot or to receive one was the only alternative left, as the challenging eyes of "Zephir" or "Chasse-Marais" flashed death across the barriere, in a combat where only one might live, though the root of the quarrel had been nothing more than a toss too much of brandy, a puff of tobacco smoke construed into insult, or a fille de joie's maliciously cast fire-brand of taunt or laugh.
"You deserve to be shot you!" said Cigarette, fiercely abusing herself as she put his head off her lap, and rose abruptly and shouted to a Tringlo, who was at some distance searching for the wounded. "Here is a Chasse-Marais with some breath in him," she said curtly, as the man with his mule-cart and his sad burden of half-dead, moaning, writhing frames drew near to her summons. "Put him in.
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