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Updated: May 19, 2025
I did not say: 'Damn patriotism! I'm afraid Captain Fracasse was out of temper when he reported that. I didn't say, 'Damn patriotism! because I did not think that then and do not now. Would you care to have my recollection of what I said?" "Yes!" breathed Marta with so intent an emphasis that Westerling turned sharply, only to find her smiling at him.
They worked their way ahead in the darkness to the third terrace and then to the second, without drawing fire. There they were told to unslip their packs "and sleep sleep!" Fracasse passed the word, as if this were also an order which perforce must be obeyed. They dropped down in a row, their heads against the cold stone wall.
In the eyes of the world the Baron de Sigognac, who carefully concealed his real rank, was only Captain Fracasse, a low play-actor, upon whom a great noble, like the Duke of Vallombreuse, had a perfect right to inflict a beating, imprisonment, or even assassination, if it so pleased him; and that without incurring the blame, or serious disapproval, of his friends and equals.
However, as nothing on this terraqueous and sublunary globe can long remain a secret, it soon transpired through Maitre Bilot, who had it direct from Jacques, the valet of the Marquis de Bruyeres, who had been present during the momentous interview between his master and the Baron de Sigognac, that the duke's brave antagonist was no other than the redoubtable Captain Fracasse; or rather, a young nobleman in disguise, who for the sake of a love affair had become a member of Herode's troupe of travelling comedians.
While the judge's son was telling the news, the colonel of the 128th and Captain Fracasse were eating their biscuits together and making occasional remarks rather than holding a conversation. "Well, Westerling is a field-marshal," said the colonel. "Yes, he's got something out of it!"
Now, pay attention, to me I will not take any mean advantage of such a glorious foe as you are, and I give you fair warning that I am going to try on you my own secret and special thrust Captain Fracasse the crowning glory of my art, the 'ne plus ultra' of my science the elixir of my life. It is known only to myself, and up to this time has been infallible.
Why hadn't he thought of this before? Of course, he should move around under cover of the reverse wall of the redoubt to join in the attack on the weak point! The valet's son had shown him the way. "Come, men, come! Follow me and Peterkin!" cried Fracasse. Did they follow? Westerling or any expert in the psychology of war could understand how ripe was their mood.
Orders could not have been heard if given. There was no need for orders. Fracasse, counting off the minutes between him and eternity on his watch face by his flash-light, saw that ten had passed. Then his finger that pressed a button, his brain that spoke to his hand, were those of an automaton acting by time release. He exploded the mine.
"No, you don't! Get down!" snapped Fracasse. "We aren't inviting hand-grenades. It's a wonder that we have escaped so far." "Hand-grenades!" gasped Peterkin, going white. But nobody observed his pallor. Every one else was gasping, "Hand-grenades!" under his breath; or, if not, his thoughts were shrieking, "Hand-grenades!" There was a restless movement, a wistful look to the rear.
There was not a vestige left of the brilliant Captain Fracasse, nor of the high-spirited rival of the haughty Duke of Vallombreuse; the unfortunate young Baron de Sigognac had relapsed entirely into the sad-eyed, dejected master of Castle Misery. One morning he sauntered listlessly down into the garden, which was wilder and more overgrown than ever a tangled mass of weeds and brambles.
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